
Glass _J_._ 
Bookil 

By bequest of 

William Lukens Shoemaker 









jWetttcal Cales, 

Al^D 

<®fytv poems, 

BY 



j«e€3af cas caster 

anti 

Robert g>out{)ep* 



Nos haec novimus esse nihil.. 



LONDON : 



PRINTED FQR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, 
PATERN OSTER-RO W. 

l£Q5. 






out 

W. L. Shoemaker 
J J "66 



Jjinted by BIGGS and CO. Crane Court, Hfcet Street* Londo*. 



JDFERTISEMENT, 



These Poems were published some years ago 
in the Annual Anthology. They have now 
been revised and printed in this collected form, 
because they have pleased those readers whom 
the Author was most desirous of pleasing. Let 
them be considered as the desultory productions 
of a man sedulously employed upon better 
things. 



CONTENTS. 



Metrical Tales. 

God's Judgment on a Bishop. . 4 

The Pious Painter 9 

St. Michael's Chair and who 

sat there 17 

A Ballad of a young man that 

would read unlawful books 

and how he was punished ; 

very pithy and profitable 21 

-King Charlemain 24 

St. Romuald 32 

The Well of St. Keyne 36 

Bishop Bruno 40 

The Battle of Blenheim 44 

St. Gualberto 48 

MONODRAMAS. 

Ximalpoca 69 

The Wife of Fergus 73 

Lucretia 77 

Songs of the American 
Indians. 

The Huron's Address to the 

dead 83 

The Peruvian's Dirge over 

the body of his Father 86 

Song of the Araucans during 

a thunder storm 89 

Song of the Chikkasah Widow. . 92 
The Old Chikkasah to his 

grandson 95 

The Love Elegies of Abel 
Shufflebottom. 

Elegy 1 101 

2 103 

3 105 

4 107 

Sonnets. 

Sonnet 1... 113 

2 114 

3 115 

4*... 116 



Sonnet 5 117 

6 118 

7 119 

8., 120 

9 121 

10 122 

11 123 

12 124 

Anomalies. 

Snuff. 127 

Cool Reflections during a -Mid- 
summer walk 129 

The Pig 132 

The Dancing Bear 135 

The Filbert 138 

Miscellanies. 

Gooseberry-Pie. A Pindaric 

Ode 143 

The Battle of Pultowa 146 

The Death of Wallace 149 

To a Frend, enquiring &c 155 

The Dead Friend 155 

History .... 158 

The Soldiers Funeral 160 

To a Spider 163 

The Oak of our Fathers 166 

The Old Man's Comforts 168 

The Ebb Tide 170 

The Holly Tree 172 

English Eclogues. 

The Last of the Family 177 

The Wedding I64 

Inscriptions. 

Inscription 1 195 

2 196 

3 197 

4 --•■ 198 

5 199 

6 200 

7 202 



fflztiimi %ak& 



GOD's Judgment on a BISHOP. 



j&ere follow eth the History ofHATTO, Archbishop of Merits* 

It hapned in the year 914j that there was an exceeding great 
famine hi Germany, at what time Otho surnamed the Great 
was Emperor, and one Hatto once Abbot of Fulda was Arch- 
bishop of Meats, of the Bishops after Crescens and Crescentius 
the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after St. Bonafacius 
the thirteenth. This Hatto in the time of this great famine 
of ore-mentioned, when he saw the poor people of the country 
exceedingly oppressed with famine, assembled a great com- 
j> any of them together into a Barne, and like a most accursed 
and mercilesse caitiffe burnt up those poor innocent souls, 
that were so far from doubting any such matter, that they 
rather hoped to receive some comfort and relief at his hands. 
The reason that moved the prelat to commit that execrable im- 
piety, mas because he thought the famine would the sooner 
cease, if those unprofitable beggars that consumed more bread 
than they were worthy to eat, w ere dispatched out of the world. 
For he said that those poor folks were like to Mice, that were 
good for nothing but to devour come. But God Almighty 
the just avenger of the poor folks Quarrel, did not long suffer 
this hainous Tyranny, this most detestable fact, unpunished. 
For he mustered up an Armv of Mice against the Archbishop, 
and sent them to persecute him as his furious Alastors, so that 
they afflicted him both day and night, and would not suffer him, 
to take his rest in any place. Whereupon the Prelate thinking 
b2 



that he should he secure from the injury of Mice if he were 
in a certain tower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the 
towne, betook himself unto the said tower as to a safe refuge 
and sanctuary from his enemies, and locked himself in. But 
the innumerable troupes of Mice chased him continually very 
eagerly, and swumme unto him upon the top of the water to 
execute the just judgment of God, and so at last he was most 
miserably devoured by those sillie creatures ; who pursued him 
with such bitter hostility, that it is recorded they scraped and 
gnawed put his very name from the walls and tapistry mherein 
it was written; after they had so cruelly devoured his body. 
Wherefore the tower wherein he was eaten up by the Mice is 
shewn to this day, for a perpetual monument to all succeeding 
ages of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny of this impious 
Prelate, being situate in a little green Island in the midst of 
the Rhine near to the towne of * Bing, and is commonly called 
in the German Tongue, the Mowse-turn. 

CoryaVs Crud. P. 571, 572. 

.Other Authors who record this tale say that the Bishop wot 
eaten by Rats. 



The summer and autumn had been so wet 
That in winter the corn was growing yet, 
Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
The corn lie rotting on the ground. 



* Hodie JUiigcn. 



Every day the starving poor . 
Crowded around Bishop JTatto's door> 
For he had a plentiful last-year's store, 
And all the neighbourhood could tell 
His granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 

To quiet the poor without delay, 

He bade them to his great Barn repair 

And they should have food for the winter there, 

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear 

The poor folk flocked from far and near j 

The great Barn was full as it could hold 

Of women and children, and young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door,. 
And while for mercy on Christ they call 
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. 

I' faith 'tis an excellent bonfire ! quoth he, 
And the country is greatly obliged to me, 
For ridding it in these times forlorn 
Of Rats that only consume the corn. 



6 



So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent man, 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning as he entered the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 
A sweat like death all over him came, 
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he look'd there came a man from his farm, 
He had a countenance white with alarm, 
My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn 
And the Rats had eaten all your corn. 

Another came running presently, 
And he was pale as pale could be, 
Fly ! my Lord Bishop, fly, quoth he, 
Ten thousand Rats are coming this way, . . 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! 

I'll go to my tower in the Rhine, replied he, 
: Tis the safest place in Germany, 
The walls are high and the shores are steep 
And the tide is strong and the water deep. 



Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away 
And he crost the Rhine without delay, 
And reach'd his Tower in the Island and barr'd 
All the gates secure and hard. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes; . . 

But soon a scream made him arise, 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 

He listen'd and look'd ; ... it was only the Cat $ 
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, 
For she sate screaming, mad with fear 
At the Army of Bats that were drawing near. 

For they have swum over the river so deep, 
And they have climb' d the shores so steep, 
And now by thousands up they crawl 
To the holes and windows in the wall. 

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell, 

As louder and louder drawing near 

The saw of their teeth without he could hear. 



» 



And in at the windows and in at the door, 
And through the walls by thousands they pour, 
And down from the ceiling and up thro' the floor, 
From the right and the left, from behind and before, . 
From within and without, from above and -below, 
And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stonei, 
And now they pick the Bishop's bones, 
They gnawed the flesh from every limb 
For they were sent to do judgment on hirn ! 



The PIOUS PAINTER. 



The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria 
ofGaz&its, but the Catholic Poet has omitted the conclusion. 
This is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand, 



THE FIRST PART. 



There once was a Painter in Catholic days, 

Like Job who eschewed all evil. 
Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze 
With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise 

And delight was in painting the Devil. 

They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew. 
Who beseiged poor St. Anthony's cell ; 

Such burning hot eyes, such a damnable hue ! 

You could even smell brimstone their breath was so blue, 
He painted the Devil so welL 



10 



And now had the Artist a picture begun, 

'Twas over the Virgin's church door -, 
She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son, 
Many Devils already the Artist had done, 
But this must out-do all before. 

The Old Dragon s imps as they fled thro' the air 

At seeing it paus'd on the wing, 
For he had the likeness so just to a hair, 
That they came as Apollyon himself had been there, 

To pay their respects to their King. 

Every child at beholding it shivered with dread 

And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. 
Not an old woman saw it, but raising her head, 
Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said, 
Lord keep me from ugly Old Nick ! 

What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day, 
He sometimes would dream of by night ; 

But once he was startled as sleeping he lay ; 

'Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey 
That the Devil himself was in sight. 



11 



You rascally dauber ! old Beelzebub cries. 

Take heed how you wrong me again ! 
Tho' your caricatures for myself I despise, 
Make me handsomer now in the multitudes eyes, 

Or see if I threaten in vain ! 

Now the Painter was bold and religious beside, 

And on faith he had certain reliance. 
So earnestly he all his countenance eyed, 
And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride. 

And sturdily bade him defiance. 

Betimes in the morning the Painter arose, 

He's ready as soon as 'tis light. 
Every look, every line, every feature he knows,., 
*Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes, 

And he has the old Wicked One quite. 

Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail, 

The tip of the nose is red hot, 
There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scaler 
And that the identical curl of his tail, . . 

Not a mark, not a claw is forgot. 



12 



He looks and retouches again with delight;' 

'Tis a portrait compleat to his mind ! 
He touches again, and again gluts his sight, 
He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright 

The Original standing behind. 

Fool ! Idiot ! old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke 

And stampt on the scaffold in ire. 
The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke, 
'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke, 

The Devil could wish it no higher. 

Help. . help me ! O Mary ! he cried in alarm 

As the scaffold sunk under his feet. 
From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm, 
She caught the good Painter, she saved him from harm, 

There were hundreds who saw in the street. 

The Old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied 

And cursed his own fruitless endeavour. 
While the Painter call'd after his rage to deride, 
Shock his pallet and brushes in triumph and cried, 
I'll paint thee more ugly than ever ! 



The PIOUS PAINTER. 

THE SECOND PART. 



The Painter so pious all praise had acquired' 

For defying the malice of Hell ; 
The Monks the unerring resemblance admired : 
Not a Lady lived near but her portrait desired 

From one who succeeded so well. 

One there was to be painted the number among 

Of features most fair to behold ; 
The country around of fair Marguerite rung, 
Marguerite she was lovely and lively and youngs 

Her husband was ugly and old. 

O Painter avoid her ! O Painter take care ! 

For Satan is watchful for you ! 
Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare^ 
The net is made ready, O Painter beware 

Of Satan and Marguerite too. 



14 



She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head, 

On the Artist she fixes her eyes ; 
The colours are ready, the canvas is spread, 
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red, 

And the features of beauty arise. 

He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue ! 

There's a look that he cannot express ;. . 
His colours are dull to their quick- sparkling hue, 
More and more on the Lady he fixes his view, 

On the canvas he looks less and less. 

In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more, 

And that look that fair Marguerite gave ! 
Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore, 
But he never attempted an Angel before, . . 
St. Anthony help him and save ! 

He yielded alas ! for the truth must be told, 
To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate. 
It was settled the Lady so fair to behold, 
Should elope from her husband so ugly and old, 
With the Painter so pious of late ! 



15 



Now Satan exults in his vengeance compleat, 

To the Husband he makes the scheme known, 
Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet, 
Together they fly, they are seiz'd in the street, 
And in prison the Painter is thrown. 

With Repentance, his only companion, he lies, 

And a dismal companion is she ! 
On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise, 
Now you villainous dauber ! Sir Beelzebub cries, 

You are paid for your insults to me ! 

But my tender heart it is easy to move 

If to what I propose you agree - y 
That picture, . . be just ! the resemblance improve, 
Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove, 

And you shall this instant be free. 

Overjoyed, the conditions so easy he hears, 
I'll make you quite handsome ! he said, 
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears, 
Releas'd from his prison, releas'd from his fears, 
The Painter is snusc in his bed. 



m 



At morn- he arises, composes his look, 

And proceeds to his work as before ; 
The people beheld him, the culprit they took; 
They thought that the Painter his prison had broke, 

And to prison they led him once more. 

They open the dungeon ; . . behold in his place 

In the corner old Beelzebub lay. 
He smirks and he smiles and he leers with a grace, 
That the Painter might catch all the charms of his face 

Then vanish'd in lightning away. 

Quoth the Painter, I trust you'll suspect me no more, 
Since you find my assertions were true. 

But I'll alter the picture above the Church-door, 

For I never saw Satan so closely before, 
And I must give the Devil his due. 



n 



ST MICHAEL'S CHAIR, 
AND WHO SAT THERE, 



Merrily merrily rung the bells. 

The bells of St. Michael's tower, 
When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 

Arrived at the church- door , 

Richard Penlake was a chearful man, 

Chearful and frank and free, 
But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife, 

For a terrible shrew was she. 

Richard Penlake a scolding would take, 

Till patience availed no longer, 
Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take^ 

And shew her that he was the stronger, 



18 

Rebecca his wife had often wish'd 

To sit in St. Michael's chair $ 
For she should be the mistress then 

If she had once sat there. 

It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick, 
They thought he would have died ; 

Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life 
As she knelt by his bed-side. 

Now hear my prayer, St. Michael ! and spare 

My husband's life, quoth she 3 
And to thine altar we will go, 

Six marks to give to thee. 

Richard Penlake repeated the vow, 

For woundily sick was he ; 
Save me St. Michael and we will go 

Six marks to give to thee. 

When Richard grew well Rebecca his wife 
Teized him by night and by day : 

O mine own dear ! for you I fear, 
If we the vow delay. 



19 



Merrily merrily rung the bells, 
The bells of St. Michael's tower, 

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 
Arrived at the church door. 

Six marks they on the altar laid, 

And Richard knelt in prayer : 
She left him to pray and stole away 

To sit in St. Michael's chair. 

Up the tower Rebecca ran, 

Round and round and round 5 
'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top 

And look upon the ground. 

A curse on the ringers for rocking 

The tower ! Rebecca cried, 
As over the church battlements 

She strode with a long stride. 

A blessing on St. Michael's chair ! 

She said as she sat down : 
Merrily merrily rung the bells 

And out Rebecca was thrown. 



'20 

Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought 

That his good wife was dead : 
Now shall we toll for her poor soul 

The great. church-bell ? they said. 

Toll at her burying, quoth Richard Penlake^ 

Toll at her burying, quoth he 5 
Jhit don't disturb the ringers now 

In compliment to me 



£1 



A BALLAD, 

tQfa YOUNG MAN that would read unlawful Books, 
and how he was punished. 

TERY PITHY AND PROFITABLE, 



Cornelius Agrippa went out one day, 
His Study he lock'd ere he went away, 
And he gave the key of the door to his wife, 
And charged her to keep it lock'd, on her life. 

And if any one ask my Study to see, 
I charge you trust them not with the key, 
Whoever may beg, and intreat, and implore, 
On your life let nobody enter that door. 

There liv'd a young man in the house who in vain 
Access to that Study had sought to obtain, 
And. he begg'd and pray'd the books to see, 
Till the foolish woman gave him the key. 



22 



On the Study-table a book there lay, 
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day, 
The letters were written with blood within, 
And the leaves were made of dead mens skin. 

And these horrible leaves of magic between 
Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen, 
The likeness of things so foul to behold, 
That what they were is not fit to be told. 

The young man, he began to read 
He knew not what, but he would proceed, 
When there was heard a sound at the door 
Which as he read on grew more and more. 

And more and more the knocking grew, 

The young man knew not what to do 5 

But trembling in fear he sat within, 

Till the door was broke and the Devil came in. 

Two hideous horns on his head he had got 
Like iron heated nine times red hot 5 
The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue, 
And his tail like a fiery serpent grew. 



23 



What wouldst thou with me ? the Wicked One cried, 
Eut not a word the young man replied ; 
Every hair on his head was standing upright 
And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright 

What would'st thou with me ? cried the Author of ill, 
But the wretched young man was silent still ; 
Not a word had his lips the power to say,, 
And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. 

What would'st thou with me ? the third time he cries 
And a flash of lightning came from his eyes, 
And he lifted his griffin claw in the air, 
And the young man had not strength for a prayer. 

His eyes red fire and fury dart 
As out he tore the young man's heart 
He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey, 
And in a clap of thunder vanish' d away. 

The MORAL. 

Henceforth let all young men take heed 
How in a Conjurer's books they read, 



24 



KING CHJRLEMJIN. 



Francois Petrarque, fort renommi entre les Pottes Jtalieng, 
discourant en une epistre son voyage de France et de VAlle- 
maigne, nous raconte que passant par la ville d'Aix, il apprit 
de quelque prcstres une histoire prodigeuse qu'ils tenoient de 
main en main pour tres veritabte. Qui estoit que Charles 1$ 
Grand, apres avoir conquests plusiers pays, s'esperdit de 
telle facon en Vamour d 9 une simple femme, que mettant 
tout homieur et reputation en arriere, il cublia non seule- 
ment les affaires de son royaume, mais aussi le soing de sa 
propre personne, au grand desplaisir de chacun ; esiant 
■seulement ententif a courtiser ceste dame: laquelle par bon- 
heur commenca a s' aliter d'une grosse maladie, qui lui 
apporta la mort. Dont les Princes et grands Seigneurs fort 
resjouis, esperans que par ceste mort, Charles reprendroit 
comme devant et s.es esprits et les affaires du royaume en 
main : toutesfois il se irouva tellement infatue de ceste 
amour, qu* encores cherissoit-il ce cadaver, V embrassant, 
baisant, accolant de la mesme facon que devant, et au lieu 
de prester P creille aux legations qui lay survenoient, il 
V entretenoit de milie beyes, comme s'il eust esie plein de 
vie. Ce corps commencoii deja non seulement a mal sentir, 
,mais aussi se tournoit en putrefaction, et neantmoins n'y 
eivoit aucun de ses favoris qui lay en osast parler ; dtmi 



25 



ttdvint que VArchevesque Turpin mieux advise que les 
autresj pourpensa que telle chose ne pouvoit estre advenue 
sans quelque sorcellerie. Aumoyen de quoy espiant un jour 
Vheure que le Boy s'estoit absente de la chambre, commenca 
de fouiller le corps de toutes parts, Jinalement trouva dans 
sa bouche au dessous de sa langue un anneau qu'il luy osta. 
Le jour mesme Charlemaigne retournant sur ses premieres 
brisees, se trouva fort estonne de voir une carcasse ainsi 
puante. Par quoy, comme s'il se fust resveille d'un profond 
sommeil, commando, que Von V ensevelist promptment. Ce 
qui fut fait ; mais en eontr' eschange de ceste folic, il tourna 
tous ses ptnsemens vers VArchevesque porteur de cest anneau, 
ne pouvant estre de la en avant sans luy, et le suivant en 
tous les endroits. Quoy voyant ce sage Prelat, et craignant 
que cest anneau ne tombast en mains de quelque autre, le 
jetta dans un lac pro chain de la ville. Depuis lequel temps 
on dit que ce Roy se trouve si espris de V amour du lieu, qu'l 
ne desempara la ville d'Aix, oil il bastit un Palais, ■ et un 
Monastere, en Vun desquels il parfit le reste de ses jours et en 
Vautre voulut estre ensevely, ordonnant par son testament 
que tous les Empercurs de Rome eussent a se f aire sacrer pre- 
mierement en ce lieu. 



Les Recherches de la France, d* Estienm 
Pasquier, Paris. 1611. 



25 



KING CHARLEMAIN. 



It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by 

And the bloom of her beauty was fled ; 
'Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam' d in her eye, 
And all but the Monarch could plainly descry 
Prom whence came her white and her red. 

Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare, 
That Kings might be proud of her chain ; 

The court was a desert if she were not there, 

She only was lovely, she only was fair, 
Such dotage possess'd Charlemain. 

The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid, 

Alike do their rival detest 5 
And the good old Archbishop who ceas'd to upbraid> 
Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray'd 

To sing her the requiem of rest. 



27 

A joy ill- dissembled soon gladdens them all, 

For Agatha sickens and dies. 
And now they are ready with bier and widi pall. 
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall, 

And the bell tolls long thro' the skies. 

They came, but he sent them in anger away, 

For she should not be buried., he said $ 
And despite of all counsel, for many a day, 
Array'd in her costly apparel she lay, 

And he would go sit by the dead. 

The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain. 

And the army cry out for their Lord 5 
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain, 
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain 

And still he unsheathes not the sword. 

The Soldiers they clamour, the Monks bend in prayer 

In the quiet retreats of the cell ; 
The Physicians to counsel together repair, 
They pause and they ponder, at last they declare 

That his senses are bound by a spell. 
C2 



28 



With relics protected,, and confident grown 

And telling devoutly his beads, 
The Archbishop prepares him, and when it was known, 
That the King for awhile left the body alone, 

To search for the spell he proceeds. 

Now careful he searches with tremulous haste 

For the spell that bewitches the King ; 
And under the tongue for security placed, 
Its margin with mystical characters faced, 

At length he discovers a ring. 

Rejoicing he seiz'd it and hasten'd away, 

The Monarch re-entered the room, 
The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay 
He bade the attendants no longer delay 

But bear her with speed to the tomb. 

Now merriment, joyaunce and feasting again 

Enlivened the palace of Aix, 
And now by his heralds did King Charlemain 
Invite to his palace the courtier train 

To hold a high festival day. 



^ 29 

And anxiously now for the festival day 

The highly-born Maidens prepare ; 
And now all appareil'd in costly array, 
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix, 

Young and aged, the brave, and the fair. 

Oh ! happy the Damsel who 'mid her compeers 

For a moment engaged the King's eye ! 
Now glowing with hopes and now fever' d with fears 
Each maid or triumphant, or jealous, appears, 

As noticed by him, or past by. 

And now as the evening approach' d, to the ball 

In anxious suspence they advance, 
Each hoped the King's choice on her beauties might fall, 
"When lo ! to the utter confusion of all 

He asked the Archbishop to dance. 

The damsels they laugh and the barons they stare, 

'Twas mirth and astonishment all ; 
And the Archbishop started and muttered a prayer, 
And, wrath al receiving such mockery there, 

Withdrew him in haste from the hall. 
c3 



The moon dimpled over the water with light 

As he wander'd along the lake side -, 
When lo ! where beside him the King met his sight; 
" Oh turn thee Archbishop, my joy and delight, 

u Oh turn thee my charmer/' he cried j 

" Oh come where the feast and the dance and the song < 

<( Invite thee to mirth and to love ; 
" Or at this happy moment away from the throng 
" To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along, . . 

(( The moon never pierces that grove.' * 

Amazement and anger the prelate possest, 

With terror his accents he heard, 
Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly prest 
The Archbishop's old wither'd hand to his breast 

And kiss'd his old grey grizzle beard. 

" Let us well then these fortunate moments employ V y 

Cried the Monarch with passionate tone : 
" Come away then dear charmer, . . my angel, . . my jo)^ 
iC Nay struggle not now, . . 'tis in vain to be coy, . , 
si And remember that we are alone." 



H 



*' Blessed Mary protect me !" the Archbishop cried; 

" What madness is come to the King !" 
In vain to escape from the Monarch he tried, 
When luckily he on his finger espied 

The glitter of Agatha's ring. 

Overjoy'd, the old Prelate remembered the spell, 

And far in the lake flung the ring ; 
The waters closed round it, and, wond'rous to tell, 
Releas'd from the cursed enchantment of hell, 

His reason returned to the King. 

But he built him a palace there close by the bay, 

And there did he 'stablish his reign 5 
And the traveller who will, may behold at this day 
A monument still in the ruins of Aix 

Of the spell that possess'd Charlemain. 



c4 



33 



St. ROMUJLD. 



The Virtues of this Saint , as mentioned in (he poem, may fee 
found particularized in his life. The honour intended him 
by the Spaniards, is mentioned by Andrews, History of Eng- 
land, Vol. 1. 



One day, it matters not to know 

How many hundred years ago, 
A Spaniard stopt at a posada door : 

The Landlord came to welcome him, and chat 

Of this and that, 
For he had seen the Traveller there before. 

Does holy Romuald dwell 

Still in his cell ? 
The Traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead? 

He has left his loving flock, and we 

So good a Christian never more shall see, 
The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. 



33 

Ah Sir ! we knew his worth. 

If ever there did live a Saint on earth ! 

Why Sir he always used to wear a shirt 
For thirty days, all seasons, day and night : 
Good man, he knew it was not right 

For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt ; 
And then he only hung it out in the rain, 
And put it on again. 

There used to be rare work 

With him and the Devil there in yonder cell ; 
For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. 

There they would sometimes fight 

All through a winter's night, 

From sun- set until morn, 

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn; 

The Devil spitting fire with might and main 
Enough to make St. Michael half afraid; 
Fie splashing holy water till he made 

His red hide hiss again, 
And the hot vapour fill'd the little cell. 

This was so common that his face became 

All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, 
And then lie smelt, . . Oh Lord ! how he did smell ! 
c5 



Then Sir ! to see how he would mortify 
The flesh ! if any one had dainty fare. 
Good man he would come there, 
And look at all the delicate things, and cry,. 
O Belly, Belly ! 

You would be gormandizing now I know. 
But it shall not be so ; 
Home to your bread and water . . home I tell ye ! 

But, quoth the Traveller, wherefore did he leave 
A flock that knew his saintly worth so well ? 
Why, said the Landlord, Sir, it so befell 

He heard unluckily of our intent 

To do him a great honour y and you know 
He was not covetous of fame below, 

And so by stealth one night away he went. 

What might this honour be ? the traveller cried"; 

Why Sir, the host replied, 
We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us> 

And then should strangers have 

The good man's grave, 
A loss like that would naturally grieve us^ 



35 

For he'll be made a Saint of to be sure. 

Therefore we thought it prudent to secure 
His relics while we might -, 
And so we meant to strangle him one night. 



cO 



36 



The WELL of Sf. KEYNE. 



I know not whether it be worth the reporting that there is in 
Cornwall, near the parish of St. Neots, a Well arched over 
with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, 
dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is 
this, that wheher husband or wife come Jirst to drink thereof, 
they get the masiery thereby. 

Fuller. 



A Well there is in the west country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a wife in the west country 
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne, 

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, 
And behind does an ash tree grow^ 

And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 



57 



A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne * f 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear,. 

For thirsty and hot was he, 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring town 

At the Well to rill his pail ; 
On the Well- side he rested it 

And he bade the stranger hail. 

Now art thou a batchelor, Stranger ? quoth be, 

For, an if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 

Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an if she have, I'll venture my life 

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne, 



58 



I have left a good woman who never was here, 

The stranger he made reply. 
But that my draught should be better for that, 

I pray you answer me why. 

St. Keyne, quoth the countryman, many a time 

Drank of this crystal well, 
And before the Angel summoned her 

She laid on the water a spell. 

If the husband of this gifted Well 

Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man thenceforth is he 

For he shall be master for life. 

But if the wife should drink of it first, . . 

God help the husband then ! 
The stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

You drank of the Well I warrant betimes ? 

He to the countryman said : 
But the countryman smil'd as the stranger spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 



5p 

I hastened as soon as the wedding was done 
And left my wife in the porch. 

But i' faith she had been wiser than me f 
For she took a bottle to church. 



40 



BISHOP BRUNO. 



"Bruno, the Bishop of Herb ipolitanum, sailing in the river of 
Danubius, with Henry the third, then Emperour, being not 
far from a place which the Ger manes call Ben Strudel, or 
the devouring gulf e, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in 
Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, " Ho, ho y 
Bishop Bruno, whether art tliou travelling? but dispose of 
thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shall be my prey and spoile.** 
At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and (he 
Bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue 
was, that within a short time after, the Bishop feasting with 
the Emperor in a Castle belonging to the Countesse ofEsburch, 
a r aft e r < ft 1 1 fr am the roof of' t h e chum b er wherein they sat e, 
and strooke him dead at the table. 1 '' 

Hey -wood* 's Hierarchic of the blessed Angels. 



Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, 
And he heard his heart beat loud with affright : 
He dreamt he had rung the palace bell, 
And the sound it gave was his passing knell. 

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain, 
He turned to sleep and he dreamt again : 
He rung at the palace gate once more, 
And Death was the porter that opened the door. 



41 



He started up at the fearful dream, 

And he heard at his window the screech owl scream ! 

Bishop Bruno slept no more that night, . . 

Oh ! glad was he when he saw the day light! 

Now he goes forth in proud array, 
For he with the Emperor dines to day $ 
There was not a Baron in Germany 
That went with a nobler train than he. 

Before and behind his soldiers ride, 
The people throng' d to see their pride ; 
They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent,. 
But nobody blest him as he went. 

So he went on stately and proud, 

When he heard a yoice that cried aloud, 

Ho ! ho ! Bishop Bruno ! you travel with glee, . , 

But I would have you know, you travel to me ! 

Behind and before and on either side, 
He look'd, but nobody he espied : 
And the Bishop at that grew cold with fea^ 
For he heard the words distinct and clear, 



42 

And when he rung at the palace bell, 
He almost expected to hear his knell y 
And when the porter turn'd the key, 
He almost expected Death to see. 

But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, 
For the Emperor welcomed him royally ; 
And now the tables were spread, and there 
Were choicest wines and dainty fare. 

And now the Bishop had blest the meat, 
When a voice was heard as he sat. in his seat, . . 
With the Emperor now you are dining in glee, 
But know, Bishop Bruno ! you sup with me ! 

The Bishop then grew pale with affright, 

And suddenly lost his appetite -, 

All the wine and dainty cheer 

Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear, 

But by little and little recovered he, 
For the wine went flowing merrily, 
And he forgot his former dread, 
And his cheeks again grew rosy red. 



When he sat down to the royal fare 
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there % 
But when the masquers entered the hall, 
He was the merriest man of all. 

Then from amid the masquers crowd 

There went a voice hollow and loud, . . 

You have past the day, Bishop Bruno, with glee \ 

But you must pass the night with me ! 

His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare, 
And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair 3 
With that there came one from the masquers band* 
And took the Bishop by the hand. 

The bony hand suspended his breath, 
His marrow grew cold at the touch of deathj 
On saints in vain he attempted to call, 
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall 



44 



The BATTLE of BLENHEIM. 



It was a summer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done! 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun, 

And by him sported on the green 

His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 



She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round,, 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 



45 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy 

Who stood expectant by; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And with a natural sigh, 
'Tis some poor fellow's scull, said he, 
Who fell in the great victory. 



I find them in the garden, for 
There's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough, 
The ploughshare turns them out 5 

For many thousand men, said he, 
Were slain in the great victory. 



Now tell us what 'twas all about, 
Young Peterkin he cries, 

And little Wilhelmine looks up 
With wonder-waiting eyes -, 

Now tell us all about the war, 

And what they kill'd each other for. 



A6 

It was the English,, Kaspar cried, 
Who put the French to rout -, 

But what they kill'd each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But every body said, quoth he, 

That 'twas a famous victory. 



My father lived at Blenheim then, 
Yon little stream hard by ; 

They burnt his dwelling to the ground 
And he was forc'd to fly 5 

So with his wife and child he fled, 

Nor had he where to rest his head. 



With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide, 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born infant died. 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 



47 

They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won, 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun $ 
But things like that you know must be 
After a famous victory. 



Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won > 
And our good Prince Eugene. 

Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

Nay . . nay . . my little girl, quoth he, 

It was a famous victory. 



And every body praised the Duke 
Who such a fight did win. 

But what good came of it at last ? 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

Why that I cannot tell, said he 5 

But 'twas a famous victory, 



48 



St. GUJLBERTO. 



Addressed to a FRIEND. 



The wcrk is done, the fabric is compleat ; 

Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower, 
Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat, 

Must toil for many a league and many an hour. 
Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows 
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose. 



Long were the tale that told Moscera s pride, 
Its columns clustered strength and lofty state, 

How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptur'd side, 
What intersecting arches graced its gate ; 

Its tower how high, its massy walls how strong, 
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song. 



49 






Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, 
But little store of charity , I ween, 

The passing pilgrim at Moscera found ^ 
And often there the mendicant was seen 

Hopeless to turn him from the convent door, 
For this so costly work still kept the brethren poor. 



Now all is perfect, and from every side 

They flock to view the fabric., young and old. 

Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride, 
When on the sabbath day his eyes behold 

The multitudes that crowd his chapel floor, 
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more. 



So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, 
Since sainted for a life of holy deeds -, 

He paus'd the new-rear'd convent to survey, 
And, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds, 

Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem 
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem. 

3> 



50 



Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw, 

And forth he came to greet the holy guest; 
For he was known as one who held the law 

Of Benedict, and each severe behest 
So duly kept with such religious care, 
That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer. 



** Good brother welcome !" thus Rodulfo cries., 
i( In sooth it glacis me to behold you here,] 

(€ It is Gualberto ! and mine aged eyes 

ec Did not deceive me ; yet full many a year 

(i Hath slipt away, since last you bade farewell 

To me your host and my uncomfortable cell, 



€( "'Twas but a sorry welcome then you found, 
ie And such as suited ill a guest so dear $ 

({ The pile was ruinous, old, the base unsound; 
" It glacis me more .to bid you welcome here 

" For you can call to mind our former state \ 

Come brother, pass with me the new Moscera' 



51 



So spake the cheerful x\bbot, but no smile 
Of answering joy soften'd Gualberto's brow ; 

He raised his hand and pointed to the pile, 
" Moscera better pleas'd me then, than now ! 

<f A palace this, befitting kingly pride ! 

Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ?" 



u Aye," cries Rodulfo, " 'tis a goodly place ! 

<c And pomp becomes the house of worship well. 
e( Nay scowl not round with so severe a face ! 

<< When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell, 
i( Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall, 
€< Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all ?" 



u And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high 
<c To serve your God ?" the monk severe replied, 

€< It rose from zeal and earnest piety, 

" And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside ? 

<e Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere 

In humble hermit cell, God will incline his ear, 



52 



** Bodulfo ! while this haughty building rose, 
" Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door ? 

<e Did charity relieve the orphans woes ? 

" Cloathed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor ? 

<c He who with alms most succours the distrest, 

Proud Abbot, know he serves his heavenly father best 



<e Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell 
cc Who first abandoned all to serve the Lord ? 

x ' Their place of worship was the desart cell, 

" Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board, 

' e And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by, 

They blest their gracious God, and " thought it luxury. 



Then anger darkened in Rodulfo's face, 

" Enough of preaching," sharply he replied, 
u Thou art grown envious -, . . 'tis a common case,, 

" Humility is made the cloak of pride. 
" Proud of our home's magnificence are we, 
4< But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary." 



53 



With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone, 
" O Father hear me ! if this splendid pile 

ge Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone, 
" Bless it O Father with thy fostering smile ! 

cc Still may it stand, and never evil know, 

Long as beside its walls the eternal stream shall flow, 



' ( But Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men 

" Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast lent, 

" To pamper worldly pride 3 frown on it then ! 
" Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent 5 

' * Let yonder brook that flows so calm beside, 
" Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride !" 



He said, . . and lo the brook no longer flows ! 

The waters pause, and now they swell on high, 
High and more high the mass of water grows, 

The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly, 
And on their Saints and on their God they call, 
For now the mountain bulk o'ertops the convent waSL 

D 3 



54 



It foils, the mountain bulk, with thunder sound ! 

Fall on Moscera's pile the vengeance falls ! 
Its lofty tower now rushes to the ground, 

Prone lie its columns now, its high arched walls. 
Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide, 
That from its base swept down the unholy house * of pride- 



* Era amigo de polrreza, en tanto grado, que sentia 
mucho, que los Monasteries se edificassen sumptuosamei-Ue ; 
y assi visitandu el de Moscera y viendo un ediiicio grande, 
y elegante, buelto a Kodulfo, que era al!i Abad, con el 
roitro ayrado le dixo : Con lo que has gastado, siguiendo 
tu parecer, en este magnifico ediiicio, lias quitado el sustento 
a muchos pobres. Puso los ojos en un pequeno arroyo, que 
corria alii cerca, y dixo, Dios Omnipotente, que sueles 
hacer grander cosas de pequenas criaturas, yo te ruego, que 
vea por medio de esta pequeno arroyo ven.gauza de e&te grau. 
ediiicio. Dixo esto, y fuese de alii conio abomhiando el 
lugar ; y siendo oido, el arroyuelo comenzo a crecer, y fue 
de suerte, que recogiendo on raonte de agua, y tomandv 
de atras la corriente, vino con tan grande invpctu, que 
tlevando piedras y arl>oles consigo, derribo el edificio. 

Flos Sanctorum, por El Maestro AIojiso de VillegaSm 



55 



Were' old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, 
Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound ? 

This sure I know, that glad am I in sooth 
He only playd his pranks on foreign ground; 

For had he tum'd the stream on England too, 
The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view, 



Then Malrnsbnry's arch had never met my sight. 

Nor Battles's vast and venerable pile 5 
I had not traversed then with such delight 
The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle, 
"Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd 
On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike road. 



Wells would have fallen, dear George, our country's pride \ 

And Canning's stately church been rear'd hi vain, 
Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, 

Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain., 
Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way, 
Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay. 
D 4 



56 



And we should never then have heard I think, 
At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell ? 

The fountain streams that now in Christ-Church stink, 
Had niagara'd o'er the quadrangle 5 

But, as 'twas beauty that deserv'd the flood, 
I ween, dear George, our own old college might have stood, 



Then had not Westminster, the house of God, 
Serv'd for a concert-room, or signal post j 

Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod, 

Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast : 

And eager to destroy the unholy walls, 
Fleet-ditch had roll'd up hill to overwhelm St. Pauls, 



George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds 
Of Romish saints a useless medley store 

Of lies, that he flings time away who reads? 
And wouldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er 

Matter and Mind, and all the eternal round, 
Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound ? 



57 



Now do I bless the man who undertook 

These monks and martyrs to biographize, 
And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book, 
The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies, 
Where Angels now, now Beelzebubs appear, 
And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere, 



All is not very truth, and yet 'twere hard 
The fabling monks for fabling to abuse ; 

What if a monk, from better theme debarred, 
Some pious subject for a tale should chuse, 

How some good man the flesh and fiend o'ercame, 
His taste methinks, and not his conscience, were to blame, 



In after years, what he, good man ! had wrote, 

As we write novels to instruct our youth, 
Went travelling on, its origin forgot, 

Till at the length it past for gospel-truth. 
A fair accout ! and shouldst thou like the plea, 
Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, who taught it me, 

D 5 



58 



All is not false that seems at first a lie. 

One Antolinez* once, a Spanish knight, 
Knelt at the mass, when lo ! the troops hard by 

Before the expected hour began the fight. 
Tho' courage, duty, honour, summoned there, 
He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unrinish'd prayer. 



* Acontecio en aquella t batalla una cosa digna de memorra. 
Fernan Antolinez, hombre noble y muy devoto, oia mis«a 
al tiempo que se dio seual de acometer, costumbre ordinaria 
suya antes de la pelea ; por no dexarla comencada, se quedo 
en el teniplo quando se toco a la arraa. Esta piedad quan 
agradable fuesse a Dios, sc cntendio por an milagro. Esta- 
vase primero en la Iglesia, despues cscondido en su casa, 
temia no le afrentassen como a cobarde. En tanto, otro a 
el seniejante, es a saber, su Angel bueno, pelea entre los 
primeros tan valientemente, que la vitoria de. aquel dia se 
atribuyo en gran parte al valor de el dicho Antolinez. Con- 
frrmaron el milagro las seTiales de los golpes, y las manchas 
de Ja sangre que se hallaron frescas en sus annas y cavallo. 

t Cerca de Santistevan de Gornaazj a la libera del rio Duero. 
A. D. 98$. 



59 



Bat whilst devoutly thus the unarmed knight 
Waits till the holy service should be o'er, 

Even then the foremost in the furious tight 
Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore, 

First in the van his plumes were seen to play* 
And Spain to him decreed the glory of the day. 



The truth is told, and all at once exclaim 

His guardian angel Heaven had deign'd to send j 

And thus the tale is handed down to fame. 
Now if this Antolinez had a friend 

Who in the hour of danger serv'd him well, 
Dear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle. 



Assi pubhcado el caso, y sabido lo que pass a v a, quedo mssf 
conocida la inocencia y esfuer^o de Antoiinez, 

Mariancit 

Perhaps this miracle and its obvious interpretation, may 
Lave suggested to Florian the circumstance by which hia 
Gun salvo is prevented from combating and killing the bro- 
ther of his mistress. Florian was load of Spanish literature; 
D 



60 



I am not one who scan with scornful eyes 

The dreams which make the enthusiast's best delight 5 

Nor thou the legendary lore despise 
If of Gualberto yet again I write, 

How first impeird he sought the convent cell -, 
It is a simple *tale, and one that pleas'd me well. 



* Llaraose el padre Gualberto, y erasenor de Valdespesa, 
que esta entre Sena, y Florencia: seguia la milicia ; y 
como le raatassen un su deudo eercano injustamente, in- 
dignados,. assi el hijo, que era ya hombre, como el padre, 
con mucho cuydado buscavan ocasion, como vengar aquella 
muerte. Sucedio, que viniendo a Florencia el hijo, con un 
criado suyo, hombre valiente, y los dos bien armados, a ca- 
vallo, vio a su enemigo, y en lugar. que era impossible 
irselcs : lo qual considerado por el conlrario, y que tenia 
cierta su muerte, descendi6 de un cavallo, en que Tenia, 
y puesto de rodiilas le pidio, juntas las manos, por Jesu- 
Christo crucificado, le perdonasse la vida. Enterneciose 
Juan Gualberto, oyendo el nombre de Jesu-Christo cru- 
cificado ; y dixole, que por amor de aquel Senor, que 
rogo en la Cruz por los que le pusieron en ella, el lc 
perdonava. Pidi61e, que se levantasse, y perdiesse el te- 
nior, que ya no por enemigo ; sino por amigo le qucria, 



61 



Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto's birth. 
The heir of Valdespesa's rich domain. 

An only child, he grew in years and worthy 
And well repaid a father's anxious pain. 

Oft had his sire in battle forc'd success, 
Well for his valour known, and known for haughtiness, 



y que de Dios, por quien hacia esto, esperava el premie*. 
Passu adelante Gualberto ; y viendo una Iglesia en un 
monte cerca de Florencia, llamada de San Miniato, que 
era de Monges negros, entr6 en ella para dar gracias a 
Jesu Christo naestro Senor por la merced, que le havia 
hecho en favorecerle, de que perdonasse, y no toraasse 
venganza de su enemigo : pusose de rodillas delante de 
un Cruciaxo,, el qual, viendolo el, y otros que estavan 
presentes, desde la Craz inclino la eabeza a Gualberto, 
como agradeciendo, y dandole gracias, de que por su 
amor liuviesse perdonado la vida a su enemigo. Des- 
cubriose el caso, y fue publico, y muy celebrado, y el 
Crucinxo fue tenido en grande reverencia en aquellu Tglesia 
deS. Mmiato. Quedo Juan Gualberto de este acaecimiento, 
trocado en otro varon, y determine dexar el mundo, y las 
eosas percedaras de el. 

Flos Sanctorum, 



6<2 



It chatlc'A that one in kindred near allied 

Was slain by his hereditary foe ; 
Much by his sorrow moved, and more by pride, 

The father vow'd that blood for blood should flow ; 
And from bis youth Gualberto had been taught 
That with unceasing hate should just revenge be sought. 



Long did they wait ; at length the tidings came 

That through a lone and unfrequented way, 
Soon would Anselmo, such the murderer s name, 

Pass on his journey home, an easy prey. 
(< Go," cried the father, (( meet him in the wood !" 
And young Gualberto went, and laid in wait for blood. 



When now the youth was at the forest shade 
Arriv'd, it dreW toward the close of day; 

Anselmo haply might be long del ay 'd, 
And he, already wearied with his way, 

Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclined, 
And thoughts of near revenge alone posgess'd his mind. 



Slow sunk the glorious sun, a roseate light 

Spread o'er the forest from his lingering rays ^ 
The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight 

Soften'd in shade, . . he could not chuse but gaze ; 
And now a placid greyness clad the heaven, 
Save where the west retain'd the last green light of even, 



Cool breath'd the grateful air, and fresher now 
The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose, 

The passing gale scarce moved the o'erhanging bough, 
And not a sound dtsturb'd the deep repose, 

Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, 
Save the near brooklet's stream that murmur'd quietly. 



Is there who has not felt the deep delight, 

The hush of soul, that scenes like these impart ? 

The heart they will not soften, is not right. 
And young Gualberto was not hard of heart. 

Yet sure he thinks revenge becomes him well, 
When from a neighbouring church he heard the vesper bell. 



64 



The Catholic who hears that vesper bell, 

Howe'er employed, must send a prayer to heaven. 

In foreign lands I liked the custom well, 

For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 

It well accords 3 and wert thou journeying there, 
It would not hurt thee, George, to join that vesper-prayer. 



Gualberto had been duly taught to hold 
Each pious rite with most religious care, 

And, . . for the young man's feelings were not cold, 
He never yet had mist his vesper-prayer. 
But strange misgivings now his heart invade, 
And when the vesper bell had ceas'd, he had not pray'd, 



And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd ?■ 
The sudden doubt arose within his mind, 

And many a former precept then he weigh'd, 
The words of him who died to save mankind ; 

How 'twas the meek who should inherit heaven, 
And man should man forgive, if he would be forgiven. 



I 



65 



Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope 

That yet some chance his victim might delay. 

So as he mus'd, adown the neighbouring slope 
He saw a lonely traveller on his way ; 

And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd, . . ' 
His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the murderous sword. 



<f The house of Valdespesa gives the blow ! 

" Go, and our vengeance to our kinsman tell !'\ . 
Despair and terror seized the unarnYd foe, 

And prostrate at the young man's knees he fell, 
And stopt his hand and cried, " oh, do not take 
" A wretched sinner's life ! mercy for Jesus' sake V* 



At that most blessed name, as at a spell, 

Conscience, the God within him, smote his heart, 

His hand, for murder rais'd, unharming fell, 
He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead start, 

A moment mute in holy horror stood, 
Then cried, " joy, joy, my God ! I have not shed his blood!" 



66 



He raised Anselmo up, and bade him Vive, 

And bless, for both preserved, that holy name;- 

And pray'd the astonish' d foe man to forgive 
The bloody purpose led by which he came. 

Then to the neighbouring church he sped away, 
His over-burden'd soul before his God to lay. 



He ran with breathless speed, . . he reached the door* 
With rapid throbs his feverish pulses swell, . . 

He came to crave for pardon, to adore 

For grace vouchsafed ; before the cross he fell, 

And rais'd his swimming eyes, and thought that there 
He saw the imaged Christ smile favouring on his prayer. 



A blest illusion! from that very night 
The monk's austerest life devout he led ; 

And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight, 
And seraph-visions floated round his head -, 

The joys of heaven foretasted fillYt his soul, 
And still the good man's name adorns the sainted roil. 



ffionmmnm* 



€-9 
XIMALPOCA. 

Scene — The Temple of Mexitli. 



Subjects ! friends ! children ! I may call you children 

For I have ever borne a father's love 

Towards you ; it is thirteen years since first 

You saw me in the robes of royalty, . . 

Since here the multitudes of Mexico 

Hail'd me their King. I thank you friends that now, 

In equal numbers and with equal love, 

You come to grace my death. 

For thirteen years 
What I have been, ye know : that with all care, 
That with all justice and all gentleness, 
Seeking your weal, I govern'd. Is there one 
Whom I have injured ? one whose just redress 
I have denied, or baffled by delay ? 
JLet him come forth, that so no evil tongue 



70 



Stfcak shame of me hereafter. O my people, 
Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me 
The wrath of Heaven, 

The wrath is heavy on me! 
Heavy ! a burthen more than 1 can bear ! 
1 have endured contempt, insult and wrongs 
From that Acolhuan tyrant ! should I seek 
Revenge ? alas my people, we are few, . . 
Feeble our growing state ! it hath not yet- 
Rooted itself to bear the hurricane ; 
It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet 
The tyger's full-aged fury. Mexicans, 
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe j . . 
When was the day that ever I look'd back 
In battle ? Mexicans, the wife I loved, 
To faith and friendship trusted, in despite 
Qf me, of heaven, he seized, and spurned her back 
Polluted ! . . coward villain ! and he lurks 
Behind his armies and his multitudes 
And mocks my idle wrath ! ... it is not fit 
It is not possible that I should live ! 
Live ! and deserve to be the finger-mark 
Of slave-contempt ! his blood I cannot reach, 
But in my own all stains shall be effaced, 



71 



It shall blot out the marks of infamy, 

And when the warriors of the days to come 

Tell of Ximalpoca, it shall be said 

He died the brave man's death.! 

Not of the God 

.Unworthy , do I seek his altar thus, 

A voluntary victim. And perchance 

The sacrifice of life may profit ye 

.My people, tho' all living efforts fail'd 

3j fortune, not by fault* 

,Cease your lament ! 
And if your ill-doom'd King deserved your love, 
Say of him to your children, he was one 
Who bravely bore misfortune.^ who when life 
Became dishonour, shook his body off, 
And join'd the Spirits of the heroes dead. 
Yes ! not. in Miclanteuctli's dark abode 
With cowards shall your King receive his doom j 
Not in the icy caverns of the North 
Suffer thro* endless ages ! He shall join 
The Spirits of the brave, with them at morn 
Shall issue from the eastern gate of Heaven, 
And follow thro' his fields of light the Sun $ 
With them shall raise the song and weave the dance j 



72 



Sport in the stream of splendour; company 
Down to the western palace of his rest 
The Prince of Glory $ and with equal eye 
Endure his centered radiance. Not of you 
Forgetful, O my people, even then ; 
But often in the amber cloud of noon 
Diffus'd, will I o'erspread your summer fields, 
And on the freshened maize and brightening meads 
Shower plenty. 

Spirits of my valiant Sires, 
' I come ! Mexitli, never at thy shrine 
Flow'd braver blood ! never a nobler heart 
Steam'd up its life to thee ! Priest of the God^ 
Perform your office J 



75 
The WIFE of FERGUS. 



Fergusius 3. periit veneno ab more dato. Alii scributt. 
cum uxor scepe exprobrasset ex matrimonii contemptum et 
pellicum greges, neque quicquam pvojechset, tandem noctu 
dormientem ab ed stranguluium. Qumstione de morte ejus 
habitd, cum amicorum plurimi insimularentur, nee quis- 
quam ne in gravissimis quidem tormentis quicquam fatere- 
tur, mulier, alioquiferox, tot innoxiorum capitum miserta, 
in medium processit, ac e superiore loco ccedem a se faclam 
confessa, ne ad ludibrium superesset, pectus cultro transfo- 
dit: quod ejus factum varie pro cujusque ingenio est ac- 
ceptum, ac perinde sermonibus celebratum. 

Buchanan. 



Scene — Tlie Palace Court. The Queen speaking from the 
Battlements. 

Cease . . cease your torments ! spare the sufferers ! 
Scotchmen, not theirs the deed 5 . . the crime was mine, 
Mine is the glory. 

Idle threats ! I stand 
Secure. All access to these battlements 
Is barr'd beyond your sudden strength to force j 
And lo ! the dagger by which Fergus died ! 
s 



74 

Shame on ye Scotchmen, that a woman's hand 
Was left to do this deed ! Shame on ye Thanes, 
Who with slave-patience have so long endured 
The wrongs, and insolence of tyranny ! 
Ye coward race ! . . that not a husband's sword 
Smote that adulterous King ! that not a wife 
Revenged her own pollution 5 in his blood 
Wash'd her soul pure, and for the sin compell'd 
Aton'd by virtuous murder ! O my God 1 
Of what beast matter hast thou moulded them 
To bear with wrongs like these ? There was a time 
When if the Bard had feign'd you such a tale 
Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and your hands 
In honest instinct would have graspt the sword. 
O miserable men who have disgraced 
Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name ! 

Aye, . . ye can threaten me ! ye can be brave 

In anger to a woman ! one whose virtue 

Upbraids your coward vice 5 whose name will live 

Honoured and prais'd in song, when not a hand 

Shall root from your forgotten monuments 

The cankering moss. Fools ! fools ! to think that death 

Is not a thing familiar to my mind ! 



7o 



As if I knew not what must consummate 
My glory ! as if ought that earth can give 
Could tempt me to endure the load of life ! . . . 
Scotchmen ! ye saw when Fergus to the altar 
Led me, his maiden Queen. Ye blest me then, . . 
I heard you bless me, . . and I thought that Heaven 
Had heard you also and that I was blest, 
For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God ! 
With what a sacred heart-sincerity 
My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow 
That made me his, him mine - y bear witness Thou ! 
Before whose throne I this day must appear 
Stain'd with his blood and mine ! my heart was his, . . 
His in the strength of all its first affections. 
In all obedience, in all love, I kept 
Holy my marriage vow. Behold me Thanes ! 
Time hath not changed the face on which his eye 
-So often dwelt, when with assiduous care 
He sought my love ; with seeming truth, for one, 
Sincere herself, impossible to doubt. 
Time hath not changed that face ; . . I speak not now 
With pride of beauties that will feed the worm 
To morrow ! but with joyful pride I say 
That if the truest and most perfect love 
s2 



76 

Deserved requital, such was ever mine. 
How often reeking from the adulterous bed 
Have I received him ! and with no complaint. 
Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn 
Long, long did I endure, and long curb down 
The indignant nature. 

Tell your countrymen, 
Scotchmen, what I have spoken ! say to them 
Ye saw the Queen of Scotland lift the dagger 
Red from her husband's heart ; that in her own 
She plunged it. 

stabs herself. 

Tell them also, that she felt 
No guilty fear in death. 



77 



LUCRETIA. 



Scene, the house of COLLATINE. 



Welcome, my father ! good Valerius, 
Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both 
My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come. 
My husband . . Collatine . . alas ! no more 
Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp 
Pollution to thy bosom, . . . hear me on ! 
For I will tell thee all. 

I sate at eve 
Spinning amid my maidens as I wont, 
When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came. 
Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine ! 
I little liked the man ! yet, for he came 
From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee, 
I gladly gave him welcome, gladly listen'd, . . 
Thou canst not tell how gladly ! to his tales 
£3 



78 

Of battles, and the long and perilous seige j 
And when I laid me down at night to sleep, 
Twas with a lighten'd heart, . . I knew thee safe. 
My visions were of thee. 

Nay hear me out ! 
And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife 
Not vainly shall have suffered. I have wrought 
My soul up to the business of this hour 
That it may stir your noble spirits, prompt 
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn 
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke, , . 
The Tarquin wa3 beside me ! O my husband ! 
Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel strength, . a 
All power of utterance gone ! astonish'd, stunn'd, 
I saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge 
His damned suit, and bid me tamely yield, . . 
Yield to dishonour. When he proffer* d death, . . 
Oh I had leapt to meet the merciful sword ! 
But that with most accursed vows he vow'd 
That he would lay a dead slave by my side, 
Murdering my spotless honour. . . Collatine ! 
From what an anguish have I rescued thee ! 
And thou my father, wretched as thou art, 
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man, . . , 



79 



Think, father, what that agony had been ! 

Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless 

The memory of thy poor, polluted child. 

Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye ! 
Mysterious man ! at last I know thee now, 
I see thy dawning glories ! . . to the grave 
Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend -, 
Not always shall her wretched country wear 
The Tarquins yoke ! ye will deliver Rome, 
And I have comfort in this dreadful hour. 

Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death ? 
O Collatine ! the weapon that had gored 
My bosom, had been ease, been happiness, . . 
Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp. 
Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die ! 

Stabs herself. 



r 4 



ftOllgSt 

of t&e 

amevtcan f ttoiatt& 



E 5 



83 



The HURON'S ADDRESS to the DEAD. 



Brother, thou wert strong in youth \ 
Brother, thou wert brave in war ! 
Unhappy man was he 
For whom thou hadst sharpened the tomahawk's edge - 7 
Unhappy man was he 
On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight $ 
And he who from thy hand 
Received the calumet, 
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace. 

When the Evil Spirits seized thee, 
Brother, we were sad at heart : 

We bade the Jongler come 

And bring his magic aid j 
We circled thee in mystic dance, . 

With songs and. shouts and cries, 

To free thee from their power. 
Brother, but in vain we strove, 
The number of thy days was full, 

E<5 



84 

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, 
The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs, 
Thy feet are sandal' d, ready for the way. 
Those are the unfatiguable feet 

That traversed the forest track > 

Those are the lips that late 

Thundered the yell of war ; 
And that is the strong right arm 
That never was lifted in vain, 

Those lips are silent now, 
The limbs that were active are stiff, 

Loose hangs the strong right arm ! 

And where is That which in thy voice 
The language of friendship spake ? 
That gave the strength of thine arm ? 

That nll'd thy limbs with life ? 
It was not Thou, for Thou art here, 

Thou art amongst us still, 
But the Life and the Feeling are gone. 

The Iroquois will learn 

That thou hast ceas'd from war 5 
'Twill be a joy like victory, 
For thou wert the scourge of their race. 



85 



Brother, we sing thee the song of death ; 
In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest j 
The bow shall be placed by thy side, 
And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for flight. 
To the Country of the Dead 
Long and painful is thy way I 
Over rivers wide and deep 
Lies the road that must be past, 

By bridges narrow-wall' d 
Where scarce the Soul can force its way, 
While the loose fabric totters under it. 

Safely may our Brother pass t 
Safely may he reach the fields, 
Where the sound of the drum and the shell 
Shall be heard from the Country of Souls ! 
The Spirits of thy Sires 
Shall come to welcome thee 5 
The God of the Dead in his bower 
Shall receive thee and bid thee join 
The dance of eternal joy. 

Brother we pay thee the rites of death, 
Rest in the bower of delight ! 



86 



The PERUVIAN'S DIRGE over the Body of 
his FATHER. 



Rest in peace, my Father, rest, 
With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse 
From the Stranger's field of death. 
I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun, 
For veiling thy beams with a cloud, 

While at the pious task 

Thy votary toil'd in fear. 
Thou badest the clouds of night 
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man | 
But didst thou not see my toil, 
And put on the darkness to aid, 
O Wife of the visible God ? 

Wretched, my Father, thy life ! 
Wretched the life of the Slave ! 
All day for another he toils, 
Overwearied at night he lies down, 
And dreams of the Freedom that once he enjoy'd, 



87 

Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth, 
My Father ! for then thou wert free. 
In the fields of the nation thy hand 
Bore its part of the general task ; 
And when, with the song and the dance, 

Ye brought the harvest home, 
As all in the labour had shar'd, 
So justly they shar'd in the fruits. 

Thou visible Lord of the Earth, 
Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, 
O giver of light and of life ! 
When the Strangers came to our shores,, 
Why didst thou not put forth thy power ? 
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd, 
Thy fires should in lightnings have flash' d ! . . 
Visible God of the Earth, 
The Strangers mock at thy might ! 
To figures and beams of wood 
They force us to bow the knee - } 
They plunge us in caverns and dens, 
Where never thy blessed light 
Shines on our poisonous toil ! 
But not in the caverns and dens, 



88 

O Sun, are we mindless of thee ! 
We pine for the want of thy beams, 
We adore thee with anguish and groans. 

My Father, rest in peace ! 

Rest with the dust of thy Sires ! 
They plac'd their Cross in thy dying grasp, . . 

They bore thee to their burial place, 

And over thy breathless frame 

Their bloody and merciless Priest, 

Mumbled his mystery words. 

Oh ! could thy bones be at peace 

In the fields where the Strangers are laid ? ■ 

Alone, in danger and in pain, 

My Father, I bring thee here :. 

So may our God, in reward, 

Allow me one faithful friend 
To lay me beside thee when I am released ! 

So may he release me soon, 

That my Spirit may join thee there, 

Where the Strangers never shall come ! 



89 



SONG of the ARJUCJNS 

During a THUNDER STORM. 



The storm cloud grows deeper above ; 
Araucans ! the tempest is ripe in the sky ; 
Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, 

They come to the war of the winds. 

The Souls of the Strangers are there, 
In their garments of darkness they ride thro' the heaven ; 
The cloud that so lurid rolls over the hill 

Is red with their weapons of fare. 

Hark ! hark ! in the howl of the wind 
The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums, 
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight 

Is the blast, that disbranches the wood. 



90 

Behold from the clouds of their power 
The lightning, the lightning is lanced at our sires ! 
And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven I 

And the darkness that quenches the day ! 

Ye Souls of our Fathers be brave ! 
Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earthy 
Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire* 

Brave Spirits ye tremble not now ! 

We gaze on your warfare in hope. 
We send up our shouts to encourage your arms ! 
Lift the lance of your vengeance O Fathers ! with force. 

For the wrongs of your country strike home ! 

Remember the land was your own 
When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas * 9 
That the old fell asleep in the fullness of days 

And their children wept over their graves. 

Till the Strangers came into the land 
With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire, 
Then the strength of the people in youth was cut oflv 

And the father wept over his son. 



91 



It thickens . , the tumult of fight, 
Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard, , . 
Remember the wrongs that your country endures ! 

Remember the fields of your fame ! 

Joy ! joy ! for the Strangers recoil, . . 
They give way, . . they retreat to the land of their life ! 
Pursue them ! pursue them ! remember your wrongs ! 

Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. 

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice 
As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; 
And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow 

Waft thither the song of your praise,, 



92 



SONG of the CHIKKASAH WIDOW. 



'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale. 
The unappeas'd Spirit in anger complains, 

Rest, rest Ollanahta, be still ! 

The day of revenge is at hand. 

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die ; 

To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear, 
To-morrow thy widow shall wield 
The knife and the fire $ . . be at rest ! 

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course, . . 

The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow, . . 
I will think Ollanahta ! of thee, 
Will remember the days of our love. 

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat 
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung ; 
I gazed on the bow of thy strength 
As it waved on the stream of the wind* 



93 

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there. 
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain, — 

What a leap has it given to my heart 

To see thee suspend it in peace. 

When the black and blood-banner was spread to the gale 
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard 

I remember thy terrible eyes 

How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy. 

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek 
As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death ; 
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud 
Ere the thunder and light'ning are born. 

He went and ye came not to warn him in dreams, 
Kindred Spirits of him who is holy and great ! 

And where was thy warning, O Bird, 

The untimely announcer of ill. 

Alas ! when thy brethren in conquest return'd -, 
When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads- 
And the pine-boughs of triumph before 
Where the scalps of their victory swung, . . 



94 

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice? was not there. 
I call'd thee, . . alas, the white deer-skin was brought, 

And thy grave was prepar'd in the tent 

Which I had made ready for joy ! 

Ollanahta all day by thy war-pole I sit, . . 
Ollanahta all night I weep over thy grave* 

To morrow the victims shall die, 

And I shall have joy in revenge. 



95 



The Old CHIKKASAH to Ms GRANDSON, 



Now go to the battle my BojH 
Dear child of my son 

There is strength in thine arm, 
There is hope in thy heart, 

Thou art ripe for the labours of war. 

Thy Sire was a stripling like thee 

When he went to the first of his fields, 
Hereturn'd, in the glory of conquest return'd, 

Before him his trophies were borne, 
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rai© 

Have rusted their raven locks. 
Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arriv'd, 

The day of the warriors reward ; 

When the banners sun-beaming were spread, 

And all hearts were dancing in joy 

To the sound of the victory drum. 



96 



The Heroes were met to receive their reward ; 

But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day, 

The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen : 
The swan-feathers hung from his neck, 
His face like the rainbow was tinged, 
And his eye, . . how it sparkled in pride ! 

The Elders approach' d, and they placed on his brow 
The crown that his valour had won, 
And they gave him the old honour'd name. 

They reported the deeds he had done in the war, 
And the youth of the nation were told 
To respect him, and tread in his path. 

My Boy ! I have seen, and with hope, 

The courage that rose in thine eye 

When I told thee the tale of his death. 

His war-pole now is grey with moss, 

His tomahawk red with rust, 

His bow-string whose twang was death 

Now sings as it cuts the wind, 

But his memory is fresh in the land 

And his name with the names that we love. 



97 

Go now and revenge him my Boy ! 
That his Spirit no longer may hover by day 

O'er the hut where his bones are at rest. 

Nor trouble our dreams in the night. 
My Boy I shall watch for the warriors return, 
And my soul will be sad 

Till the steps of thy coming I see. 

LOFC, 



£o\se (Elegies 

of 

Mtl fefmfflebottom* 



101 



ELEGY I. 

The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's pocket-handkerchief. 



Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare ? 

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout ! 
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, 

That left the tempting corner hanging out \ 

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, 

After long travel to some distant shrine, 

When at the relic of his saint he kneels, 

For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine. 

When first with filching Jingers I drew near, 
Keen hope shot tremulous thro 5 every vein, 

And when the finished deed removed my fear, 
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain 

F 3 



102 

What tho' the eighth commandment rose to mind, 
It only served a moment's qualm to move, 

For thefts like this it could not be designed, 

The eighth commandment was not made for love ! 

Here when she took the macaroons from me, 

She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet ^ 

Dear napkin ! yes she wiped her lips in thee ! 
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. 

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw 
That made my Love so delicately sneeze, 

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, 

And thou art doubly dear for things like these. 

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, 

Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane 5 
For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair, 

And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er a^ain. 



103 



ELEGY II. 

The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach Delia. 
He describes her singing. 



Ye Sylphs who banquet on my Delia's blush,, 
Who on her locks of floating gold repose, 

Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush, 

And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose. 

Hover around her lips on rainbow zuing, 

Load from her honeyed breath your viewless feet, 

Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring, 
And make the lily and the violet sweet. 

Ye Gnomes, whose toil thro' many a dateless year 
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, 

From central caverns bring your diamonds here, 
To ripen in the sun of Delia's eyes. 
f4 



104 

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, 
Spirits of fire ! to see my love advance -, 

Fly, Salamanders, on Asbestos wings, 
To wanton in my Delia sjlery glance. 

She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells, 
Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl ? 

Nymphs ! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells" 
Enclose them, embryos f the orient pearl. 

She sings ! the Nightingale with envy hears, 
The Cherubim bends from his starry throne, 

And motionless are stopt the attentive Spheres, 
To hear more heavenly music than their own. 

Cease, Delia, cease ! for ail the angel throng, 
Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires ! 

Cease, Delia ! cease that too surpassing song, 

Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres. 

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven 
By the strong joy ! cease, Delia, lest my soul 

Enrapt, already think itself in heaven, 
And hurst my feeble body s frail controul. 



f> — •■ 



105 



ELEGY HI. 

The Poet expatiates on the beauty of Delia's hair 



The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains 
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright, 

Not spotless merely from the touch remains, 
But issues forth more pure, more milky white. 

The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads 
Sometimes with honour' d ringers for my fair, 

No added purfume on her tresses sheds, 

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair. 

Happy the Friseur who in Delia's hair 

With licensed fingers uncontroul'd may rove, 

And happy in his death the dancing bear, 
Who died to make pomatum for my love, 
f 5 



10(5 

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour' d lays 

Might curl those Lovely locks with conscious pride, 

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherds praise 
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside. 

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, 
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart -, 

From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtle line 
Wherewith the urchin angled for my Heart. 

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads 

That from the silk- worm, self-interrd, proceed ; 

Fine as the gleamy Gossamer, that spreads 
Its filmy web- work o'er the tangled mead. 

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate 
My captive heart has handcuffed in a chain, 

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, 

That bears Britannia's thunders o'erthe main. 

The Sylphs that round her radiant locks repair, 
Inflowing lustre bathe their brightening wings 5 

And Elfin Minstrels with assiduous care 
The ringlets rob for r aery ftddle-st rings , 



f m> »- <*" * 1 ' i^J- 1 ' " ' " > " 



107 



ELEGY IF 



The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair, 
and her Anger. 



Oh ! be the day accurst that gave me birth 1 
Ye seas,, to swallow me in kindness rise ! 

Fall on me, mountains ! and thou, merciful earth, 
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes ! 

Let universal Chaos now return, 

Now let the central fires their prison burst, 
And Earth and Heaven and Air and Ocean burn . . 

For Delia frowns . . she frowns, and I am curst ! 

Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight, 

Where hostile millions sought my single life j 

Would storm Volcano batteries with delight, 
And grapple with grim Death in glorious strife. 
f 6 



108 

Oh ! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, 

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies } 

What is his wrath to that of her I love ? 

What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes I 

Go, fatal Lock ! I cast thee to the wind \ 
Ye serpent curls, ye poison- tendrils go . . 

Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, 
Accursed Lock, . . thou cause of all my woe ! 

Seize the curst curls, ye Furies as they fly I 
Daemons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, 

That thence your cruel vengeance when I die, 
May knit the knots of torture for my soul. 

Last night, . . Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer! 

The Book of Fate before thy suppliant lay, 
And let me from its ample records tear 

Only the single page of yesterday ! 

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight, 
And I will stop him on his restless way ; 

Omnipotent in Love's resistless might, 

III force him lack the road of yesterday. 



109 

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, 

My Delia bent deliciously to grieve ; 
I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, 

And drew the fatal scissars from my sleeve : 

And would that at that instant o'er my thread 
The shears of Atropos had open'd then j 

And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, 
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men ! 

She heard the scissars that fair lock divide, 

And whilst my heart with transport panted big, 

She cast a fury frown on me, and cried, 

" You stupid puppy, , . you have spoil' d my wig V 9 



gponnefo 



173 



SONNET I 



O thou sweet Lark that in the heaven so high 
Twinklest thy wings and singest merrily, 

I watch thee soaring with no mean delight, 
And when at last I turn mine aching eye 

That lags, how far below thy lofty flight, 
Still silently receive thy melody. 
O thou sweet Lark, that I had wings like thee ! 

Not for the joy it were in yon blue light 

Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height 
Gaze on the creeping multitude below, 

But that I soon would wing my eager flight 
To that loved place where Fancy even now 

Has fled, and Hope looks onward thro' a tear^ 

Counting the weary hours that keep her here. 



114 



SONNET II. 



Thou lingerest, Spring ! still wintry is the scene, 

The fields their dead and sapless russet wear ; 

Scarce does the glossy pile-wort yet appear 
Starring the sunny bank, or early green 

The elder yet its circling tufts put forth. 
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest 
Where we should see our martins' snowy breast 

Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north 
And from the keener east still frequent blow. 
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest ! and it should be so, . . 

Late let the fields and gardens blossom out ! 
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest, 
*Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best, 

When most ye promise, ever most must doubt. 



115 



SONNET III 



Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said, 
And wisely was it he advised distrust, 
The fiower that blossoms earliest fades the first. 
Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head 
And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage 

Tempests the ocean waves $ slowly it rose, 
Slowly its strength increas'd thro' many an age,, 

And timidly did its light leaves unclose 
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. 
They to the summer cautiously expand, 
And by the warmer sun and season bland 
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen, 
When the bare forest by the wintry blast 
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last. 



116 



SONNET IV. 



TO A GOOSE. 



If thou didst feed on western plains of yore $ 
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet 
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor j 
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat 
From gipsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet ; 
If thy grey quills by lawyer guided, trace 
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race, 
Or love- sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet, 
Wailing the rigour of some lady fair j 
Or of the drudge of housemaid's daily toil, 
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil, 

Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care. 
But this I know, that thou wert very fine, 
Season' d with sage, and onions, and port wine. 



117 



SONNET V. 



I marvel not, O Sun ! that unto thee 
In adoration man should bow the knee, 

And pour the prayer of mingled awe and love? 
For like a God thou art, and on thy way 
Of glory sheddest with benignant ray, 

Beauty, and life, and joyaunce from above. 

No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, 
These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day 5 
But shed thy splendour thro' the opening cloud, 

And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowers 
Lie odourless, beat down with heavy rain, 

Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers ; 
O Lord of Light ! put forth thy beams again, 

For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours* 



118 



SONNET VI. 



Fair be thy fortunes in the distant land 
Companion of my earlier years and friend ! 

Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand 
Of Heaven its blessing on thy labour send. 

And may I, if we ever more should meet, 
See thee with affluence to thy native shore 

Return'd -, . . I need not pray that I may greet 
The same untainted goodness as before. 

Long years must intervene before that day, 

And what the changes Heaven to each may send, 
It boots not now to bode t Oh early friend 

Assur'd, no distance e'er can wear away 

Esteem long rooted, and no change remove 

The dear remembrance of the friend we love. 



119 



SONNET VII 



Farewell my home, my home no longer now, 
Witness of many a calm and happy day -, 

And thou fair eminence upon whose brow 
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray. 

Farewell ! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue 
The westering sun beyond the utmost height, 
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light. 

No more the freshness of the falling dew, 

Cool and delightful here shall bathe my head, 
As from this western window dear, I lean, 
Listening the while I watch the placid scene, 

The martins twittering underneath the shed. 

Farewell my home ! where many a day has past 

In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last. 



120 



SONNET VIII. 



Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight, 
Thy lofty hills with fern and furze so brown, 
The waters that so musical roll down 

Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight 
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey 
Circling its surges in thy level bay. 

Porlock, I also shall forget thee not, 

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined ; 
And often shall hereafter call to mind 

How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot 

To wear the lonely, lingering close of day, 
Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire, 
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire 

Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away. 

August 9, i79iv 



121 



SONNET IX. 



Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide 

To some far-distant land adventurous bound ; 
The sailors busy cries from side to side 

Pealing among the echoing rocks resound : 
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band, 

Joyful they enter on their ocean way, 
With shouts exulting leave their native land, 

And know no care beyond the present day. 
But is there no poor mourner left behind, 

Who sorrow s for a child or husband there ? 
Who at the howling of the midnight wind 

Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer ? 
So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind ! . 

Go gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair ! 



122 



SONNET X. 



O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour 
On the poor mariner ! in comfort here 
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear 
The blast that rages with resistless power. 

What were it now to toss upon the waves, . / 
The maddened waves and know no succour near -, 
The howling of the storm alone to hear 

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves - } 
To gaze amid the horrors of the night 
And only see the billow's gleaming light; 
Amid the dread of death to think of her 
Who as she listens sleepless to the gale 
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale ? 
O God have mercy on the mariner ! 



123 



SONNET XL 



She comes majestic with her swelling sails 
The gallant bark 3 along her watery way- 
Homeward she drives before the favouring gales ; 
Now flirting at their length the streamers play 
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. 
Hark to the sailors shouts ! the rocks rebound 
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. 
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas, 
And what a heart-delight they feel at last. 
So many toils, so many dangers past, 
To view the port desir'd, he only knows 
Who on the stormy deep for many a day 
Hath tost, aweary of his ocean way, 
And watch' d all anxious every wind that blows. 

G2 



124 



SONNET XII. 



A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee 

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey 
As the long moss upon the apple-tree ; 
Blue lipt, an ice drop at thy sharp blue nose. 

Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way, 
Plodding alone thro' sleet and drifting snows. 
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth 

Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair, 
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth, 

Or circled by them as thy lips declare 
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire, 

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, 
Pausing at times to move the languid fire, 

Or taste the old October brown and bright. 



atacmaite& 



127 



SNUFF. 



A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up 
The titillated nose ; and fills the eyes 
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze 
The full collected pleasure bursts at last ! 
Most rare Columbus ! thou shalt be for this 
The only Christopher in my Kalendar. 
Why but for thee the uses of the Nose 
Were half unknown, and its capacity 
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath. 
At midnoon glittering with the golden furze, 
Bears its balsamic odour, but provokes 
Not satisfies the sense ; and all the flowers, 
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt 
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, 
That half the year the Nostrils would keep Lent, 
But that the kind Tobacconist admits 
g 4 



12S 

No Winter in his work ; when Nature sleeps 
His wheels rcll on, and still administer 
A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. 

What is Peru and those Golcondan mines 

To thee Virginia ? miserable realms 

They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools ) 

But thine are common comforts ! to omit 

Pipe-panegyric and tobacco praise, 

Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, 

Europe, and far above Pizarro's name 

Write Raleigh in thy records of renown ! 

Him let the school-boy bless if he behold 

His master's box produced, for when he sees 

The thumb and finger of Authority 

Stufft up the nostrils 5 when hat, head, and wig 

Shake all 5 when on the waistcoat black the dust 

Or drop falls brown 5 soon shall the brow severe 

Relax, and from vituperative lips 

Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, 

And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed. 



129 
COOL REFLECTIONS 

DURING A 

MIDSUMMER WALK. 



O spare me . . spare me, Phoebus ! if indeed 

Thou hast not let another Phaeton 

Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car ; 

Mercy ! I melt ! I melt ! no tree, no bush, 

No shelter ! not a breath of stirring air 

East, West, or North, or South ! dear God of day, 

Put on thy night-cap ! crop thy locks of light, 

And be in the fashion ! turn thy back upon us, 

And let thy beams flow upward ! make it night 

Instead of noon ! one little miracle. 

In pity, gentle Phoebus ! 

What a joy, 
Oh what a joy to be a Seal and flounder 
On an ice-island ! or to have a den 
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow ! 
It were a comfort to shake hands with Death, . . 
He has a rare cold hand ! to wrap one's self 
G 5 



130 

In the gift shirt Deianeira sent, 
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep 
The sun off; or toast cheese for Beelzebub, 
That were a cool employment to this journey 
Along a road whose white intensity- 
Would now make platina uncongelable 
Like quicksilver. 

Were it midnight, I should walk 
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove ! 
O gentle Jove ! have mercy, and once more 
Kick that obdurate Phcebus out of heaven ! 
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars 
For cardamum, and drinks down peppermint^ 
Making what's left as precious as Tokay. 
Send Mercury to salivate the sky 
Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove ! 
But some such little kindness to a wretch 
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat, , . 
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester 
Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast 5 . . 
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings, 
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee^ 
And turn true Pagan. 



131 

Not a cloud nor breeze, . 7 

you most heathen Deities ! if ever 

My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them, 
That hath resolved itself into a dew), 

1 shall have learnt owl- wisdom. Thou vile Phoebus, 
Set me a Persian sun-idolater 

Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him 

With no inquisitorial argument 

But thy own fires. Now woe be to me wretch, 

That I was in a heretic country born ! 

Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, 

And burn away the calx of their offences 

In that great Purgatory crucible, 

Help me. O Jupiter ! my poor complexion ! 

I am made a copper-Indian of already, 

And if no kindly cloud will parasol me, 

My very cellular membrane will be changed, . . 

I shall be negrofied. 

A brook ! a brook ! 
Oh what a sweet cool sound ! 

'Tis very nectar ! 
It runs like life thro' every strengthen'd limb ! 
Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer, 
g6 



132 



THE PIG. 

A COLLOQUIAL POEM. 



Jacob ! I do not love to see thy nose 
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder Pig. 
It would be well,, my friend, if we, like him 
Were perfect in our nature ! why dislike 
The sow-born grunter ? . . He is obstinate, 
Thou answerest ; ugly, and the filthiest beast 
That banquets upon offal. Now I pray you 
Hear the Pig's Counsel. 

Is he obstinate ? 
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, 
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast 
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
Their profit and not his. He hath not learnt 
That Pigs were made for man, born to be brawn' d 
And baconized ; that he must please to give 



133 

Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave 
For self-defence, the general privilege ; 
Perhaps, hark Jacob ! dost thou hear that horn ? 
Woe to the young posterity of pork ! 
Their enemy is at hand. 

Again. Thou say 'st 
The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! 
Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery. 
His face, . . nay Jacob, Jacob ! were it fair 
To judge a Lady in her dishabille ? 
Fancy it drest, and with salt-petre rouged. 
Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse - y 
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. 
And what is beauty, but the aptitude 
Of parts harmonious ? give thy fancy scope 
And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
The starry glories of the Peacock's pride; 
Give him the Swan's white breast ; for his horn-hoofs 
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves 
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, 
When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose; . . 



134 

Jacob, thou can'st but make a monster of him. 
All alteration man could think, would mar 
His Pig-perfection. 

The last charge, . . he lives 
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him 
With noble and right-reverend precedents, 
And show by sanction of authority 
That 'tis a very honourable thing 
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
On better ground the unanswerable defence. 
The Pig is a philosopher, who knows 
No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob, what is dirt ? 
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts 
An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel 
That stuffs him to the throat-gates is no more. 
If matter be not, but as Sages say, 
Spirit is all, and all things visible 
Are one, the infinitely modified, 
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire 
"W herein he stands knee- deep ? 

And there ! that breeze 
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile 
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field 
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 



135 
The DANCING BEAR. 

Recommended to the Advocates for the Slave-Trai^i, 



Rare music ! I would rather hear cat-courtship 

Under my bed-room window in the night, 

Than this scraped cat-gut's screak. Hare dancing too I 

Alas poor Bruin ! How he foots the pole. 

And waddles round it with unwieldy steps 

Swaying from side to side ! . . The dancing master 

Hath had as profitless a pupil in him 

As when he would have tortured my poor toes 

To minuet grace, and made them move like clock- worli 

In musical obedience. Bruin ! Bruin ! 

Thou art but a clumsy biped ! . . and the mob 

With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace, 

And laugh to see him led by the nose ; . . themselves 

Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye 

Of Reason from their Natures purposes 

As miserably perverted. 



136 

Bruin-Bear, 
Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight. 
And prove how much my sympathetic heart 
Even for the miseries of a beast can feel, 
In fourteen lines of sensibility. 
But we are told all things were made for man 5 
And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here 
Who would not swear 'twere hanging blasphemy 
To doubt that truth. Therefore as thou wert born 
Bruin ! for man, and man makes nothing of thee 
In any other way, . . most logically 
It follows, that thou must be born to dance 5 
That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose 
To hold a ring ; and that thy fat was given thee 
Only to make pomatum ! 

To demur 
Were heresy. And politicians say, 
(Wise men who in the scale of reason give 
No foolish feelings weight,) that thou art here 
Far happier than thy brother bears who roam 
O'er trackless snow for food ; that being born 
Inferiour to thy leader, unto him 
Rightly belongs dominion ; that the compact 
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet 
First fell into the snare, and he gave up 



1J/ 

His right to kill, conditioning thy life 
Should thenceforth be his property : . . besides, 
'Tis wholesome for thy morals to be brought 
From savage climes into a civilized state, 
Into the decencies of Christendom. . . . 
Bear ! Bear ! it passes in the Parliament 
For excellent logic this ! what if we say 
How barbarously man abuses power, 
Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied. 
Thy welfare is thy owner's interest, 
But wert thou baited it would injure thee, 
Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years 
Hear it o Heaven, and give ear o Earth ! 
For seven long years this precious syllogism 
Hath baffled justice and humanity ! 



138 



The FILBERT. 



Nay gather not that Filbert, Nicholas, 

There is a maggot there, . . it is his house, . / 

His castle, . . oh commit not burglary ! 

Strip him not naked, 'tis his cloaths, his shell, 

His bones, the case and armour of his life, 

And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas ! 

It were an easy thing to crack that nut 

Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth, 

So easily may all things be destroyed ! 

But 'tis not in the power of mortal man 

To mend the fracture of a filbert shell. 

There were two great men once amused themselves 

Watching two maggots run their wriggling race 

And wagering on their speed j but Nick, to us 

It were no sport to see the pampered worm 

Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat, 



139 

Like to some Barber's leathern powder bag 

Wherewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers 

Spruce Beau, or Lady fair, or Doctor grave. 

Enough of dangers and of enemies 

Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordained, 

Increase not thou the number ! him the Mouse 

Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shells defence 

May from his native tenement eject ; 

Him may the Nut-hatch piercing with strong bill 

Unwittingly destroy ; or to his hoard 

The Squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. 

Man also hath his dangers and his foes 

As this poor Maggot hath, and when I muse 

Upon the aches, anxieties and fears, 

The Maggot knows not, Nicholas methinks 

It were a happy metamorphosis 

To be enkernelled thus : never to hear 

Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots, 

Kings, Jacobines, and Tax-commissioners $ 

To feel no motion but the wind that shook 

The Filbert Tree, and rock'd me to my rest 5 

And in the middle of such exquisite food 

To live luxurious ! the perfection this 



140 

Of snugness ! it were to unite at once 
Hermit retirement, Aldermanic bliss, 
And Stoic independence of mankind. 



jWiscellames, 



lit 



GOO$EBERRY-PIE> 



A PINDARIC ODE. 



Gooseberry-Pie is best. 

Full of the theme O Muse begin the song ! 
What tho' the sunbeams of the West 
Mature within the Turtle's breast 

Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue ? 

What tho' the Deer bound sportively along 
O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest } 

Give them their honours due, . , 
But Gooseberry Pie is best. 

Behind his oxen slow 

The patient Ploughman plods. 

And as the Sower followed by the clods 
Earth's genial womb received the swelling seed. 
The rains descend, the grains they grow 5 

Saw ye the vegetable ocean 

Roll its green billows to the April gale ? 
The ripening gold with multitudinous motion 

Sway o'er the summer vale ? 



144 

It flows thro' Alder banks along 

Beneath the copse that hides the hill; 

The gentie stream you cannot see, 

You only hear its melody, 

The stream that turns the Mill. 

Pass on a little way pass on, 

And you shall catch its gleam anon ; 
And hark ! the loud and agonizing groan 
That makes its anguish known, 
Where tortur'd by the Tyrant Lord of Meal 
The brook is broken on the Wheel ! 

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale ! 
On the white bosom of the sail 

Ye winds enamour' d, lingering lie ! 
Ye waves of ocean spare the bark ! 

Ye tempests of the sky ! 
From distant realms she comes to bring 

The sugar for my Pie. 
For this on Gambia's arid side 

The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood, 
And Beelzebub beholds with pride, 
His darling planter brood. 



145 

First in the spring thy leaves were seen, 
Thou beauteous bush, so early green ! 
Soon ceas'd thy blossoms little life of love. 
O safer than the Alcides-conquer'd tree 
That grew the pride of that Hesperian grove, , 

No Dragon does there need for thee 
With quintessential sting to work alarms, 

And guard thy fruit so fine, 

Thou vegetable Porcupine ! 
And didst thou scratch thy tender arms, 

O Jane i that I should dine ! 

The flour, the sugar, and the fruit, 
Commingled well, how well they suit, 

And they were well bestow'd. 
O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie, 
And will not you in just reply 

Praise my Pindaric Ode ? 



146 



The BATTLE of PULTOWA. 



On Vorskas glittering waves 
The morning sun-beams play -, 
Pultowa's walls are throng' d 
With eager multitudes ; 
Athwart the dusty vale 
They strain their aching eyes, 
Where to the right moves on 
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede. 

Him Famine hath not tamed 
The tamer of the brave ; 
Him Winter hath not quell'd, 
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, 
Frozen to their endless sleep, 
He held undaunted on 5 
Him Pain hath not subdued, 



147 

What tho' he mounts not now 
The fiery steed of war, 
"Borne on a litter to the fight he goes. 

Go iron-hearted King ! 

Full of thy former fame. 

Think how the humbled Dane 

Crouch'd to thy victor sword ; 

Think how the wretched Pole 

Resigned his conquer' d crown ; 

Go iron-hearted King ! 
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast, .■ .■ 
The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawn'dj 

Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen 

That on thy shame shall set ! 

Now bend thine head from heaven, 
Now Patkul be revenged ! 
For o'er that bloody Swede 
Ruin hath rais'd his arm \ 
For ere the night descends, 
His veteran host subdued, 
His laurels blasted to revive no more, 
He flies before the foe ! 
h2 



148 

Long years of hope deceived 
That conquered Swede must prove; 
Patkul thou art avenged ! 
Long years of idleness 
That restless soul must bear ; 
Patkul thou art avenged ! 
The Despot's savage anger took thy life, 
Thy death has stabb'd his fame. 



149 



The DEATH of WALLACE, 



Joy, }oy in London now ! 
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death, 
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, 

Joy, joy in London now ! 

He on a sledge is drawn, 
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, 
And garlanded around his helmless head 

The laurel wreath of scorn. 

They throng to view him now 
Who in the field had fled before his sword, 
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pal© 

And faltered out a prayer. 

h a 



150 

Yes they can meet his eye. 
That only beams with patient courage now ? 
Yes they can gaze upon those manly limbs 

Defenceless now and bound* 

And that eye did not shrink 
As he beheld the pomp of infamy ; 
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs- 

When the last moment came. 

What tho' suspended sense 
Was by their damned cruelty revived, 
What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life 

To feel protracted death - 7 

What tho' the hangman's hand 
Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart, . . 
In the last agony, the last sick pang, 

Wallace had comfort still. 

He called to mind his deeds 
Done for his country in the embattled field ; 
He thought of that good cause for which he died. 

And that was joy in death I 



151 

Go Edward triumph now ! 
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush' d \ 
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs 

The fowls of Heaven have fed. 

Unrivalled, unopposed, 
Go Edward full of glory to thy grave ! 
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul 

Go Edward to thy God \ 



k 4 



152 



TO A FRIEND, 

Enquiring if I would live over vnij youth agaim. 



Do I regret the past ? 

Would I again live o'er 

The morning hours of life ? 

Nay, William ! nay, not so f 
In the warm joyaunce of the summer sure 

I do not wish again 

The changeful April day. 

Nay, William ! nay, not so J 

Safe haven'd from the sea 

I would not tempt again 

The uncertain ocean's wrath. 
Praise be to him who made me what I am> 

Other I would not he. 



153 

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk 

Of days that are no more ? 

When in his own dear home 

The traveller rests at last,, 
And tells how often in his wanderings 

The thought of those far off 

Hath made his eyes o'erflow 

With no unmanly tears -, 

Delighted he recalls 
Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. 
But ever when he tells of perils past, 

And troubles now no mere, 
His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy 

Flows rapid to his heart. 

No., William ! no, I would not live again 

The morning hours of life, 

I would not be again 

The slave of hope and fear, 

I would not learn again 
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught, 

To me the past presents 

No object for regret ; 

To me the present gives 

All cause for full content 5 

H 5 



154 

The future, . . it is now the chearful noon, 
And on the sunny- smiling fields I gaze 
With eyes alive to joy f 
When the dark night descends^ 
I willingly shall close my weary lids 
Secure to wake again. 



155 



The DEAD FRIEND. 



Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul 

Descend to contemplate 

The form that once was dear ! 
Peed not on thoughts so loathly horrible ! 

The Spirit is not there 

That kindled that dead eye, 

That throbb'd in that cold heart, 

That in that motionless hand 

Has met thy friendly grasp. 

The Spirit is not there ! 
it is but lifeless, perishable, flesh 

That moulders in the grave, 
Earth, air and waters ministering particles 

Now to the elements 

Resolv'd, their uses done. 
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul^ 

Follow thy friend beloved, 

The Spirit is not there ! 

H<3 



156 

Often together have we talk'd of death ; 
How sweet it were to see 
All doubtful things made clear ; 
How sweet it were with powers 
Such as the Cherubim, 
To view the depth of Heaven ! 

Edmund I thou hast first 
Begun the travel of Eternity ! 

1 gaze amid the stars,, 

And think that thou art there, 
Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. 

And we have often said how sweet it were 
With unseen ministry of angel power 

To watch the friends we loved. 

Edmund ! we did not err ! 
Sure I have felt thy presence ! thou hast given 

A birth to holy thought, 
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. 

Edmund ! we did not err ! 

Our best affections here 
They are not like the roys of infancy 5 

The Soul outgrows them not, 

We do not cast them off, 

Oh if it could be so 
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die ! 



157 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, 

Follow thy friend beloved ! 

But in the lonely hour 

But in the evening walk 
Think that he companies thy solitude j 

Think that he holds with thee 

Mysterious intercourse ; 
And tho' Remembrance wake a tear 

There will be joy in grief, 



158 



HISTORY. 



Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more 3 
For I am one who willingly would love 
His fellow kind. O gentle Poesy, 
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, 
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, 
Receive me to your haunts, . . that I may nurse 
My nature's better feelings, for my soul 
Sickens at man's misdeeds ! 

I spake, when lo ! 
There stood before me in her majesty, 
Clio, ihe strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow 
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried, 
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul 
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet, 
That love sick Maids may weep upon thy page 
In most delicious sorrow. Oh shame ! shame ! 
Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind ? 



159 

Was it for this I made thy swelling heart 
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eyr 
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died ? 
Boy ! boy ! deceive me not! what if the tale 
Of murder' d millions strike a chilling pang, 
What if Tiberius in his island stews, 
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire 
Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen 
With nobler feelings ? with a deeper love 
For Freedom ? Yes, most righteously thy soul 
Loathes the black history of human crimes 
And human misery ! let that spirit fill 
Thy song, and it shall teach thee boy ! to raise 
Strains such as Cato might have de'gn'd to heaiy 
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. 



160 



The SOLDIERS FUNERAL. 



It is the funeral march. I did not think 

That there had been such magic in sweet sounds ! 

Hark ! from the blacken' d cymbal that dead tone, . . 

It awes the very rabble multitude, 

They follow silently, their earnest brows 

Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp 

And pageantry of death that with such force 

Arrests the sense 5 . . the mute and mourning train, 

The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse, 

Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke 

A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek 

At pride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds 

This universal language, to the heart 

Speak instant, and on all these various minds 

Compel one feeling. 

But such better thoughts 
Will pass away, how soon ! and these who here 



161 

Are following their dead comrade to the grave, 
Ere the night fall, will in their revelry 
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life 
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew 
No resting place, no dear delights of home, 
Belike who never saw his children's face, 
Whose children knew no father ; he is gone, 
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf 
That from the summer tree is swept away, 
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death 
Who bore him, and already for her son 
Her tears of bitterness are shed : when first 
He had put on the livery of blood, 
She wept him dead to her.- 

We are indeed 
Clay in the potter's hand ! one favour'd mind 
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore 
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man 
Fram'd with like miracle the work of God, 
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on 
A life of labour ; like this soldier here, 
His wonderous faculties bestow'd in vain, 
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes 
A mere machine of murder, 



J 62 

And there are 
Who say that this is well ! as God h s made 
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men 
The many for the few ! court-moralists, 
Reverend lip-comforters that once a week 
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they 
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho' now 
Toiling and troubled, tho* they pick the crumbs 
That from the rich man's table fall, at length 
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus. 
Themselves meantime secure their good tilings here' 
And feast with Dives. These are they O Lord ! 
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see 
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined, 
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them 
Who shed their brethren's blood, . . blind at noon day 
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness ! 

O my God ! 
I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride 
I thank thee that I am not such as these, 
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart 
That feels, the voice that in these evil days 
Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself 
And cries aloud against iniquity. 



163 



To a SPIDER. 



Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about* 

To shun my curious eyes ; 
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out 

Lest thou should' st eat the flies -, 
Nor will I roast thee with a damn'd delight 
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
For there is one who might 
One day roast me. 

Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplext^ 

The subject of his verse : 
There's many a one who on a better text 

Perhaps might comment worse. 
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my view> 
But quietly like me spin out the line - r 
Do thou thy work pursue 
As I will mine, 



164 

Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways 

Of Satan, Sire of lies ; 
Hell's huge black Spider for mankind he lays 

His toils as thou for flies. 
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room 
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen ! 
But where is he whose broom 
The earth shall clean ? 

Spider ! of old thy flimsy webs were thought, 

And 'twas a likeness true, 
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught 

But which the strong break through. 
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, 

Like some poor client is that wretched fly ; 
I'll warrant thee thou' It drain 
His life-blood dry. 

And is not thy weak work like human schemes 

And care on earth employ'd ? 
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams 

So easily destroyed ! 
So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, 
Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay, 
Soon shall Destruction sweep 
His work away. 



165 

Thou busy labourer ! one resemblance more 

Shall yet the verse prolong, 
For Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, 

Whom thou hast help'd in song. 
Both busily our needful food to win, 

We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains, 
Thy bowels thou dost spin, 
I spin my brains. 



166 



The OAK of our FATHERS. 



Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood 

In its beauty -, the glory and pride of the wood ! 

It grew and it flourish' d for many an -age, 

And many a tempest wreak' d on it its rage, 

But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, 

It struck its roots deeper, and flourish'd more fast. 

Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round, 
For its roots were struck deep, and its heart was sound j 
The bees o'er its honey- dew'd foliage play'd, 
And the beasts of tjie forest fed under its shade. 

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear, 

Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear. 

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood 

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 



0/ 

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk* 
It struck in its mouths and its juices it drunk -, 
The branches grew sickly deprived of their food. 
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. 

The foresters saw and they gather' d around, 
Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound 5 
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, 
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed. 

No longer the bees o'er its honey- dews play'd, 
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ; 
Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, 
A monument now what its beauty has been. 

The Oak has received its incurable wound, 
They have loosened the roots, tho' the heart may be sound ; 
What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see, 
Are the leaves of the ivy that poisoned the tree. 

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood 

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 



168 



The OLD MAN'S COMFORTS. 

And how he gained them. 



You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
The few locks which are left you are grey ; 

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, 
Now tell me the reason I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
I remembered mat youth would fly fast, 

And abused not my health and my vigour at first 
That I never might need them at last. 

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
And pleasures with youth pass away, 

And yet you lament not the days that are gone, 
Now tell me the reason I pray. 



m 

In the days of my youth. Father William replied* 
I remember' d that youth could not last ; 

I thought of the future whatever I did, 
That I never might grieve for the past. 

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 

And life must be hastening away ; 
You are chearful, and love to converse upon death ! 

Now tell me the reason I pray. 

I am chearful, young man, Father William replied, 

Let the cause thy attention engage $ 
In the days of my youth I remembered my God ! 

And He hath not forgotten my age. 



170 



Vie EBB TIDE. 



Slowly thy flowing tide 
Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, 
As watchfully I roam'd thy green- wood side, 

Behold the gentle rise. 

With many a stroke and strong 
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars. 
And yet the eye beheld them labouring long 

Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along ; 
The solitary helms-man sits to guide 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks, that lay 
So silent late, the shallow current roars j 
Fast flow thy waters on their sea- ward way 

Thro' wider-spreading shores. 



171 

Avon ! I gaze and know 
The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way _j 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms that long have stood 
And slow to strength and power attain' d at last^ 
Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood 

Ebb to their ruin fast. 

So tardily appears 
The course of time to manhood's envied stage; 
Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years 

Then hasten to old a^e ! 



i 2 



172 



The HOLLY TREE. 



O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to sec 

The Holly Tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise, 
As might confound the Atheists sophistries. 



Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle thro' their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 



173 

I love to view these things with curious eyes 

And moralize ! 
And in the wisdom of the Holly Tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
Such as may profit in the after- time. 



So, tho' abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere, 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude, 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 
i 3 



174 

And as when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bright than they, 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see 
What then so chearful as the Holly Tree ? 



So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng, 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they, 
That in my age as chearful I might be 
As the green winter of the Holly Tree. 



CngltsI) (Eclogues* 



i 4 



177 



The LAST of the FAMILY. 



JAMES. 



What Gregory ! you are come I see to join us 
On this sad business. 

GREGORY. 

Aye, James, I am come, 
But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man ! 
Where shall we meet the corpse ? 

JAMES. 

Some hour from hence j 
By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. 
This is not as it should be, Gregory, 
Old men to follow young ones to the grave ! 
This morning when I heard the bell strike out^ 
I thought that I had never heard it toll 
So dismally before. 

i 5 



178 

GREGORY. 

Well, well ! my friend, 
'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. 
But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, 
One born so well, who might have blest us all 
Many long years ! . . 

JAMES. 

And then the family 
Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name 
Only to be remember' d on a tomb- stone ! 
A name that has gone down from sire to son 
So many generations ! — many a time 
Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse, 
When but a child, would come to me and lead me 
To the great family tree, and beg of me 
To tell him stories of his ancestors, 
Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land 
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry 
Who fought at Crecy in King Edward's wars $ 
And then his little eyes would kindle so 
To hear of their brave deeds ! I used to think 
The bravest of them all would not out-do 
My darling boy. 

GREGORY. 

. This comes of your great schools 



179 

And college breeding. Plague upon his guardians 
That would have made him wiser than his fathers ! 

JAMES. 

If his poor father, Gregory ! had but lived. 
Things would not have been so. He, poor good man, 
Had little of book learning, but there lived not 
A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, 
One better to his tenants. When he died 
There was not a dry eye for miles around. 
Gregory, I thought that I could never know 
A sadder day than that : but what was that, 
Compared with this day's sorrow ? 

GREGORY. 

I remember 
Eight months ago when the young Squire began 
To alter the old mansion, they destroy 'd 
The martins nests, that had stood undisturb'd 
Under that roof, . . aye ! long before my memory. 
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought 
No good could follow. 

' JAMES. 

Poor young man ! I loved him 
Like my own child. I loved the family ! 
Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant 
For five and forty years. I lived with them 
i 6 



180 

When his good father brought my Lady home, 

And when the young Squire was born, it did me good 

To hear the bells so merrily announce 

An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow. . . 

I feel it Gregory, heavier than the weight 

Of threescore years. He was a noble lad, 

I loved him dearly. 

GREGORY. 

Every body loved him, 
Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth ! 
When he came home from school at holydays, 
How I rejoiced to see him ! he was sure 
To come and ask of me what birds there were 
About my fields $ and when I found a covey, 
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game 
More charily, than I have kept them safe 
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well 
Upon a fine sharp morning after them, 
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd 
With such a wholesome ruddiness, . . ah James 
But he was safdly changed when he came down 
To keep his birth-day. 

JAMES. 

Chang' d ! why Gregory, 
'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd 



181 

Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin, 
His cheek so delicate sallow, and his eyes 
Had such a dim and rakish hollowness j 
And when he came to shake me by the hand 
And spoke as kindly to me as he used, 
I hardly knew tlie voice. 

GREGORY. 

It struck a damp 
On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble Ox 
That smoak'd before us, and the old October 
Went merrily in overflowing cans 5 
But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart 
Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank 
His health, the thought came over me what cause 
We had fqr wishing that, and spoilt the draught. 
Poor Gentleman ! to think ten months ago 
He came of age, and now ! 

JAMES. 

I fear'd it then. 
He look'd to me as one that was not long 
For this world's business. 

GREGORY. 

When the Doctor sent him 
Abroad to try the air, it mc.de me certain 
That all was over. There's but littie hope 



182 

Methinks that foreign parts can help a man 

When his own mother-country will not do. 

The last time he came down, these bells rung so 

I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down} 

And now that dismal toll ! I would have staid 

Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty, 

I am an old tenant of the family, 

Born on the estate, and now that I've out-lived it, . . 

Why 'tis but right to see it to the grave. 

Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? 

JAMES. 

But little, 
And that not well. But be he what he may 
Matters not much to me. The love I bore 
To the good family will not easily fix 
Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill ? 
Is it not the funeral ? 

GREGORY. 

'Tis I think, some horsemen. 
Aye ! there are the black cloaks j and now I see 
The white plumes on the herse. 

JAMES. 

Between the trees 5 — 
'Tis hid behind them now. 



183 

GREGORY. 

Aye ! now we see it, 
And there's the coaches following, we shall meet 
About the bridge. Would that this day were over ! 
I wonder whose turn's next ! 

JAMES. 

God above knows ! 
When youth is summon' d what must age expect ! , 
God make us ready Gregory ! when it comes. 



184 



THE WEDDING. 



TRAVELLER. 

I pray you wherefore are the village bells 
Ringing so merrily ? 

WOMAN. 

A wedding Sir, 
Two of the village folk. And they are right 
To make a merry time on't while they may. 
Come twelve-months hence, I warrant them they'd go 
To church again more willingly than now 
So all might be undone. 

TRAVELLER. 

An ill-match' d pair 
So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age ? 

WOMAN. 

No, . . both are young enough. 



185 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps the man then, 
A lazy idler , one who better likes 
The alehouse than his work ? 

WOMAN. 

Why Sir, for that 
He always was a well-conditioned lad, 
One who'd work hard and well ; and as for drint^ 
Save now and then mayhap at Christmas time, 
Sober as wife could wish. 

TRAVELLER. 

Then is the girl 
A shrew, or else untidy. One who'd welcome 
Her husband with a rude unruly tongue, 
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home 
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so ? 

WOMAN. 

She's notable enough, and as for temper 

The best good-humour' d girl ! d'ye see that house ? 

There by the aspin tree whose grey leaves shine 

In the wind ? she lived a servant at the farm, 

And often as I came to weeding here, 

I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows 

So chearfully, . . I did not like to hear her, 



166 

Because it made me think upon the days 

When I had got as little on my mind, 

And was as chearful too. But she would marry, 

And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Why Mistress, if they both are well inclined, 
Why should not both be happy ? 

WOMAN. 

They've no money. 

TRAVELLER. 

But both can work -, and sure as chearfully 
She'd labour for herself as at the farm. 
And he wo'nt work the worse because he knows 
That she will make his fire-side ready for him, 
And watch for his return. 

WOMAN. 

All very well, 
A little while. 

TRAVELLER. 

And what if they are poor ? 
Riches ca'nt always purchase happiness, 
And much we know will be expected there 
Where much was dven. 



2 87 

WOMAN. 

All this I have heard at church ! 
And when I walk in the church-yard, or have been 
By a death bed, 'tis mighty comforting. 
But when I hear my children cry for hunger 
And see them shiver in their rags, . . God help me ! 
I pity those for whom these bells ring up 
So merrily upon their wedding day, 
Because I think of mine. 

TRAVELLER. 

You have known trouble, 
These haply may be happier. 

WOMAN. 

Why for that 
I've had my share -, some sickness and some sorrow, 
Well will it be for them to know no worse. 
Yet had I rather hear a daughter's knell 
Than her wedding peal, Sir,, if I thought her fate 
Promised no better things. 

TRAVELLER. 

Sure, sure, good Woman, 
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! 
All have their cares ; those who are poor want wealth, 
Those who have wealth want more, so are we all 



188 

Dissatisfied, yet all live on, and each 
Has his own comforts. 

WOMAN. 

Sir ! d'ye see that horse 
Turn'd out to common here by the way side ? 
He's high in bone, you may tell every rib 
Even at this distance. Mind him ! how he turns 
His head, to drive away the flies that feed 
On his gall'd shoulder ! there's just grass enough 
To disappoint his whetted appetite. 
You see his comforts Sir ! 

TRAVELLER. 

A wretched beast ! 
Hard labour and worse usage he endures 
From some bad master. But the lot of the poor 
Is not like his. 

WOMAN. 

In truth it is not Sir \ 
For when the horse lies down at night, no cares 
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams 5 
He knows no quarter-day, and when he gets 
Some mu^ty hay or patch of hedge-row grass, 
He has no hungry children to claim part 
Of his half meal ! 



189 

TRAVELLER. 

'Tis idleness makes want, 
And idle habits. If the man will go 
And spend his evenings by the ale-house fire, 
Whom can he blame if there is want at home } 

WOMAN. 

Aye ! idleness ! the rich folks never fail 

To find some reason why the poor deserve 

Their miseries ! is it idleness I pray you 

That brings the fever or the ague fit ? 

That makes the sick one's sickly appetite 

Turn at the dry bread and potatoe meal ? 

Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 

For growing wants ? six years agone, these bells 

Rung on my wedding day, and I was told 

What I might look for, . . but I did not heed 

Good counsel. I had lived in service Sir, 

Knew never what it was to want a meal 5 

Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless 

Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday 

My linen gown, and when the pedlar came 

Could buy me a new ribbon : . . and my husband, . . 

A towardly young man and well to do, 

He had his silver buckles and his watch, 



J 90 

There was not in the village one who look'd 
Sprucer on holydays. We married Sir, 
And we had children, but as wants increas'd 
Wages did not. The silver buckles went, 
So went the watch, and when the holyday coat 
Was worn to work, no new * one in its place. 
For me — you see my rags ! but I deserve them. 
For wilfully like this new-married pair 
I went to my undoing. 

TRAVELLER. 

But the Parish — 



* A farmer once told the Author of Malvern Hills, 
" that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes 
in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young 
men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, ac- 
tive and cheerful, till they became married and had a family 
when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles and 
watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday's clothes 
became common without any other to supply their place, — 
but, said he, some good comes from this, for they will then 
work for whatever they can get J 3 

Note to Cottle's Malvern Hills. 



191 

WOMAN. 

Aye, it falls heavy there, and yet their pittance 
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect, 
To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse, 
A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Is this your child ? 

WOMAN. 

Aye Sir, and were he drest 
And clean, he'd be as fine a boy to look on 
As the Squire's young master. These thin rags of his 
Let comfortably in the summer wind ; 
But when the winter comes, it pinches me 
To see the little wretch ! I've three besides, 
And, . . God forgive me ! but I often wish 
To see them in their coflins. . . God reward you ! 
God bless you for your charity ! 

TRAVELLER. 

You have taught me 
To give sad meaning to the village bells ! 



Btempttons* 



1-95- 



For u Monument at Oxford. 



Here Latimer and Ridley in the flames 
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd 
Uprightly thro' the world, proud thoughts of joy 
Will fill thy breast in contemplating here 
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved 
From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul, 
And served, a hireling, with apostate zeal, 
The cause thy heart disowns, . . oh ! cherish well 
The honourable shame that sure this place 
Will wake within thee, timely penitent, 
And let the future expiate the past. 



K-2 



196' 



II. 



For a Monument in the Vale ofEwiAS- 



Here was it Stranger, that the patron Saint 

Of Cambria past his age of penitence, 

A solitary man ; and here he made 

His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink 

Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth 

Has read with eager wonder how the Knight 

Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower, 

Slept the long sleep : and if that in thy veins 

Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood 

Hath flow'd with quicker impulse at the tale 

Of David'^s deeds, when thro' the press of war 

His gallant comrades followed his green crest 

To conquest. Stranger ! Hatterill's mountain heights 

And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream 

Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise 

More grateful, thus associate with the name 

Of David and the deeds, of other days.. 



197 



ML 



EPITAPH on ALGERNON SIDNEY, 



Here Sidney lies, he whom perverted law 
The pliant jury and the bloody judge 
Doom'd to the traitor's death- A tyrant King 
Required> an abject country saw and shar'd 
The crime. The noble cause of Liberty 
He loved in life, and to that noble cause 
In death bore witness. But his country rose 
Like Sampson from her sleep and broke her chain*, 
And proudly with her worthies she enrolled 
Her murdered Sidney's name. The voice of man 
Gives honour or destroys 5 but earthly power 
Gives not, nor takes away, the self applause 
Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, 
Nor that which God appointed its reward; 
k 3 



198- 



IV. 



EPITAPH on KING JOHN, 



John rests below. A man more infamous 
Never hath held the sceptre of these realms, 
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power, 
The oppressed men of England. Englishman ! 
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, 
Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd 
That charter which should make thee morn and night 
Be thankful for thy birth-place : . . . Englishman ! 
That holy charter, which, should'st thou permit 
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine, 
Thy chldiren's groans will persecute thy soul, 
For they must bear the burthen of thy crime. 



W9 



v. 



In a FOREST. 



Stranger ! whose steps have reach'd this solitude. 

Know that this lonely spot was dear to one 

Devoted with no unrequited zeal 

To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard 

The rustling of these woods, that now perchance 

Melodious to the gale of summer move ; 

And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, 

With grey and yellow lichens overgrown, 

Often reclined ; watching the silent flow 

Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals 

Along its verdant course, . . till all around 

Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity, 

And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd. 

A happier, better, man. Stranger, perchance, 

Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye 

Will glide along, and to the summer gale 

The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then 

The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone, 



soo 



VI. 



For a MONUMENT at TAUNTON. 



They perish' d here whom JefTeries doom'd to death 

In mockery of all justice, when he came 

The bloody Judge, the minion of his King, 

Commission'd to destroy. They perish'd here 

The victims of that Judge, and of that King, 

Jn mockery of all justice perish'd here, 

Unheard! but not unpitied, nor of God. 

Unseen, the innocent suffered ! not in vain 

The innocent blood cried vengeance ! for they rose, 

At length the People in their, power arose, 

Resistless. Then that bloody Judge took flight, 

Disguis'd in vain : . . not always is the Lord 

Slow to revenge ! a miserable man 

He fell beneath the people's rage, and still 

The children curse his memory. From his throne 

The sullen bigot who commission'd him, 



201 

Tyrannic James was driven. He lived to drag 
Long years of frustrate hope,, he lived to load 
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne^ 
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame, 
And that immortal day when on thy shores 
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead ! 



202 



VII. 



For a TABLET at PENSHURST. 



Are days of old familiar to thy mind 

Reader ? hast thou let the midnight hour 

Pass unperceived, whilst thy young Fancy lived 

With high-born beauties and enamour d chiefs, 

Shar'd all their hopes, and with a breathless joy 

Whose eager expectation almost pain'd, 

Followed their dangerous fortunes ? if such lore 

Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, 

As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, 

The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born, 

Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man 

His own delightful genius ever feign' d, 

Illustrating the vales of Arcady 

With courteous courage and with loyal loves. 

Upon his natal day the acorn here 

Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,.. 



203 

And in the beauty of its strength it stood 
And flourish'd, when his perishable part 
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak 
Itself hath moulder'd now., but Sidney's fame 
Lives and shall live., immortalized in song. 



THE END, 



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